The assassin was sixty yards ahead of him, racing toward the Eastbridge at an impossible speed. Yet hope surged within Aravon as he caught sight of the ten Icewatchers manning the capstan on the island side of the bridge.
“Assassin!” Aravon shouted. He could barely draw breath to keep running, but poured every shred of strength into one desperate call. “Stop him!”
He called in vain. The Icewatchers moved too sluggishly, caught off-guard by the sudden shouts and the appearance of the dark figure racing toward them. By the time the first blue-cloaked guard detached himself from his post beside the enormous wooden capstan, the assassin had thundered past and now raced across the Eastbridge.
Keeper take it! Desperation thrummed within Aravon’s chest.
“Go!” Aravon shouted to his companions. “Cut him off!”
Noll, Skathi, and Colborn raced ahead, yet even they couldn’t match the assassin’s impossible speed. Even as the three Grim Reavers thundered toward the Icewatcher’s post, the hooded figure crossed the Eastbridge’s halfway point.
No! Aravon’s chest clutched. The bridge stood empty, with only the inattentive Icewatchers on the landward side to bar the assassin’s progress. In seconds, he’d disappear into the shadows of Portside, out of Aravon’s reach. He’d never be able to find out who had sent the killer to eliminate Lord Virinus. Or why.
The assassin stumbled. No, not stumbled…fell! A crossbow bolt protruded from his back, just beneath his shoulder blade, pinning his flared-out cloak tight against his body. One of the Icewatchers on the island side had managed to loose a shot from his crossbow. The impact spun the assassin around and sent him falling. But he was up and on his feet a heartbeat later. Without tearing the bolt from his shoulder, with only a loud growl of pain, he broke into a run and dashed once more toward the far side of the bridge.
Yet that delay had cost him precious seconds. Colborn, Noll, and Skathi rushed between the stunned Icewatcher and sprinted across the bridge in pursuit. Aravon was only a few seconds behind them, moving far too fast for the guards to do more than shout a question.
The Icewatchers on the landward side turned in time to see the assassin bearing down on them. They moved, too slowly to do more than form a halfhearted wall of unprepared flesh and dented steel in front of the killer. Wounded or no, the hooded man was fast…far too fast, and far too strong. He simply barreled through the guards struggling to draw their swords or raise crossbows. The Icewatchers went down in a clatter of steel and cries of surprise and pain. The assassin didn’t stumble or slow—he leapt over their falling bodies and dashed on, off the bridge and into the shadows beyond.
Aravon caught a glimpse of the killer as the hooded figure darted to the right. South, away from Portside. Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut. He’s headed for the Glimmer! Lungs burning, legs on fire, Aravon forced himself not to give in to his dismay, but to keep running. Ahead of him, Colborn, Skathi, and Noll charged through the gaps in the ragged ranks of Icewatchers picking themselves up off the ground. By the time Aravon reached the guard post, the three Grim Reavers had also disappeared into the shadows south of the bridge.
“What the fiery hell?” called one Icewatcher. “What’s—”
Aravon didn’t slow—he had no time to answer—but simply barreled through the man. The Icewatcher, caught off-guard, had no chance of stopping Aravon. He went down, hard, and Aravon raced on in pursuit of his men.
We can’t lose him!
Even as he sprinted south, racing through the narrow side streets that led toward the Glimmer, a flash of movement from above caught his eye. Moonlight shone on the rooftops, for a moment revealing a figure leaping from one sloped, clay-tiled rooftop to another. The assassin, impossibly agile, his speed never slowing despite the unsteady footing. With one final leap across a gap too wide for any man to vault, he dropped from sight into the darkness below.
Gasping for breath, every muscle in his body ablaze, Aravon slowed and stopped. Skathi, Noll, and Colborn stood panting at the next intersection, their heads swiveling as they tried to find any sign of the assassin.
They would find none. The killer had raced across the rooftops hundreds of yards to the southwest, well beyond their ability to follow. Not only because of his speed, but because of the area of Icespire where he’d disappeared.
The Glimmer: a cruel mockery of a name given to the blighted slums that had sprung up within the heart of Icespire. No one knew where the name had originated, yet the denizens of that warren of crooked wooden shacks, crumbling brick walls, and tattered canvas shelters clung to it—to scorn the nobility that built their mansions on the island of wealth across the strait. Those noblemen who built their houses on the southern edge of Azure Island were forced to smell the reek of ordure, mud, urine, vomit, and rotting food that wafted from the mud and misery of the Glimmer.
Like the Outwards, the Glimmer was regularly demolished, its denizens rousted and ousted by the Icewatch. Yet, with the tenacity of a virulent wart, the Glimmer and its people always returned. An eternal “fuck you” to those that lavished in wealth while Icespire’s poor starved. Their presence forced the richest and most powerful Princelanders to acknowledge the truth of the miserable conditions so many of their fellow citizens—along with the Outwarders beyond the wall—could not escape.
“I think I saw him heading east,” Colborn gasped. The mile-long sprint in full armor had left even the stalwart Lieutenant struggling for breath.
“South!” Skathi protested. “Between those two—”
“Leave it.” Aravon shook his head. Long seconds passed before he could speak. “No chance we’ll find him in there.”
Every time the Icewatchers invaded the slums, a handful went missing—lost in the maze of shanties and alleys, their throats doubtless slit and purses lifted by the slums’ denizens. There was no way he and his Grim Reavers would find one dark-cloaked assassin amidst that sea of rotting wood, threadbare canvas, decaying brick, and crumbling stone. Not without Belthar.
“Damn it!” Skathi growled.
The anger burning within Aravon’s gut mirrored the archer’s frustration. His jaw clamped so tight his muscles ached. We bloody lost him! The assassin had escaped, but not before taking down the one man who could prove that Duke Dyrund’s death had, indeed, been a murder.
He turned back to Colborn. “Lord Virinus?” he asked, dreading the answer. They’d come all this way, only to have the hopes shattered by an assassin’s bolt.
“Alive.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. “He missed?” That didn’t seem possible—any assassin skilled enough to survive a battle with all seven of them wouldn’t be so clumsy as to miss two shots of a weapon that he handled with the familiar ease of regular use.
“Not exactly.” Colborn’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Lord Virinus’ nephew took both bolts to the chest.”
Aravon’s surprised doubled. “What?” he spat. His mind raced as he replayed the battle in Lord Virinus’ mansion. It had all happened so fast, and yet…
Realization struck him like a blow to the gut. “He wasn’t there for Lord Virinus.”
“I don’t think so.” Colborn shook his head. “Lord Virinus just happened to be in the way.”
“He was after the nephew, Bannitus.” Aravon said the words aloud. They were as hard to believe even once spoken. “The question is, why?”
Aravon had never heard of Lord Virinus’ nephew, and thus had no idea who could want him dead badly enough to send the Warrior Priests or an assassin after him. Was the assassination attempt on Bannitus a coincidence, or a message to Lord Aleron Virinus? If the latter, who would have wanted to frighten the old nobleman enough to kill a relative? The whole encounter didn’t make sense.
Even less logical, however, was the killer they’d faced. The man had taken far too many wounds to have survived that encounter. He’d moved with impossible speed, fought with a skill even the Grim Reavers couldn’t surpass. Even with the seven of them taking him head-on, he couldn’t
be certain they would have won. The thought sent a shiver of instinctive fear down his spine. Who—or what—the fiery hell was he?
There was only one way to find out.
Aravon turned to his three companions. “Time to go ask Lord Virinus a few questions.”
The old nobleman had even more to answer for now.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Aravon and his three Grim Reavers had just drawn within sight of the Eastbridge when he spotted three mail-clad figures hurrying toward them. One of the Icewatchers—the one Aravon had bulled over in his pursuit of the assassin—scowled and stepped forward to bar the way, but Belthar fixed the man with a silent glare from behind his faceless Steel Company mask, never slowing his steady advance. With a muttered curse of “Bloody sellswords!”, the Icewatcher stepped aside rather than being crushed by the towering Belthar.
Aravon paused, out of sight of the Icewatcher. The last thing he needed was to attract the ire of the city guards—he had enough to worry about, and the presence of Belthar, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr meant something in Lord Virinus’ mansion had gone wrong. Something else, aside from the assassination attempt, that was.
“What happened?” Aravon signed.
“The Icewatch showed up at the Virinus mansion,” Belthar rumbled, “and it seemed better to make a quick getaway than answer questions. We weren’t exactly invited guests.”
Aravon growled a silent curse. That was our chance! They’d had Lord Aleron Virinus within their grasp. A few minutes alone with the nobleman would have yielded the answers he needed. Now, they’d have to find another opportunity to get at the man alone. After the attack on his nephew, that would doubtless prove far more difficult.
“Maybe we get off the streets, Captain.” Belthar gestured to his masked face. “We’re not exactly inconspicuous dressed like this.”
The Steel Company was one of the best-known mercenary bands on Fehl—they strode through the streets of Portside and Eastway with the confident swagger of men who felt as if they owned the place. With their steel masks and heavy chain-and-plate armor, the seven of them would be immediately recognizable. Perhaps even as the same sellswords who’d put in an appearance at Lord Virinus’ mansion just before the assassination of his nephew and vanished shortly after.
“Good thinking.” Aravon nodded. “Split up and meet back at the Wrinkled Pig in one hour.” He turned to the big man. “Ursus, you’re with me.”
A question glimmered in Belthar’s eyes, but he only nodded and strode toward Aravon. The other five Grim Reavers broke off into twos and threes and disappeared into the shadows of Portside—doubtless on a circuitous route back to their inn, wary of anyone following them.
Aravon turned and strode south, back the way he’d come a few minutes earlier. Belthar fell into step beside him. “Captain?”
“The assassin disappeared into the Glimmer,” Aravon said, his voice quiet. From the corner of his eyes, he watched Belthar’s reaction.
Precisely as he’d expected: a sudden tightness in Belthar’s huge shoulders, a slight widening of his eyes, and a tangible darkening of his mood. The big man had spoken of the hard life in the slums of Icespire, and nowhere inside the walls was harder and more slum-like than the Glimmer.
The solid wood and brick structures of Portside quickly gave way to dilapidated buildings one strong breeze away from collapse. Homes with gaping black holes where glass or wooden shutters had once been, doors hanging on broken hinges, or fluttering curtains to bar the entrance. Buildings built three and four stories high, stacked atop each other so precariously they appeared ready to fall at any moment. Little more than shanties and shelters held together by canvas, rope, and twine.
The stink of the Glimmer grew thicker with every step. The glow of the Icespire shone on thick layers of mud, dust, and malodorous muck that seemed to cover every wall and every cobbled stone on the street. Indeed, in far too many places, the street had been torn up—doubtless to use as building material—leaving broad expanses of mud and puddles of filthy, stagnant water that reeked of urine, vomit, and rot. No candles burned in windows, no lanterns lit the street. Anyone who lived here wanted to avoid drawing notice of those passing on the streets.
Malnourished, feral dogs ran wild down a side alley, pursued by two ragged figures carrying drawn blades. A wretched, shriveled husk of a man slumped on the stoop of a nearby doorway—drunk, sleeping, or dead, Aravon couldn’t be certain.
And this was just the outskirts of the Glimmer. Aravon stopped, his eyes fixed on the broad patches of inky shadows cast by the tall buildings.
“What are the chances we find him in there?” he asked.
“About on par with finding Noll as the honored guest of Prince Toran.” Belthar’s voice was somber, a dark note edging his words. When Aravon glanced over, he found the big man toying with the braided leather thong around his wrist. “No one sees or hears anything, and they certainly don’t say anything to anyone that doesn’t have Glimmer mud under their fingernails. Icewatch, Legion, Steel Company, or the Prince himself—there’s only one authority in there.”
“The Brokers.”
Belthar nodded. “And they’re about as welcoming of outsiders as the Eirdkilrs.”
Aravon chewed on his bottom lip. “Think they’d give us information on the assassin?”
“If you have enough coin, sure.” Belthar inclined his head. “But we’re not exactly swimming in imperials these days. ” He gave a frustrated shrug of his broad shoulders. “Even if you could set up a meeting with whoever’s running the crews, no guarantee they’ll give you more than a purse-full of lies. Especially if he was one of theirs.”
Aravon felt fairly certain that the assassin was not a Broker. Or a Princelander, for that matter. A man like that, who could fight and kill like that, would have been snapped up by the Duke for his special company in a heartbeat. Had an assassin like that lived and worked within Icespire, word would have spread—no man could fight like that and keep his reputation a secret. There was something utterly alien about the killer, almost inhuman. Though what, Aravon couldn’t quite decide.
“My thoughts, Captain?”
Aravon nodded. “Speak.”
“That assassin wasn’t there for Lord Virinus, which makes him not our problem.” Belthar’s big shoulders twitched up into a half-shrug. “The Prince has the Icewatch to handle things like that.”
“You think the Icewatchers can take him on?” Aravon tilted his head. “A man who could fight off all of us?”
“No.” Belthar shook his head. “But if we spend all our time hunting him down, we’ll be straying from our real mission, the thing that brought us to Icespire in the first place.” He turned to face Aravon, an intense light filling his eyes. “I told you I’d follow you here, do my part to make sure we get justice for the Duke and unmask the traitor. But you know what danger both Magicmaker and I are in just being here. So the sooner we get the job done and get out of Icespire, the better.”
Aravon couldn’t argue the statement. Every day they spent here increased the chances of their identity being uncovered, or running into someone who could recognize them. Lord Eidan would also be expecting an answer sooner rather than later. Already, a full day had passed since he dispatched Snarl with the message requesting their location and current mission. If the Prince’s spymaster didn’t hear back from them in the next day or two, he might send Skyclaw—the Duke’s Enfield—with a second message. And when that Enfield returned in minutes rather than hours or days, it might raise questions. Questions better left unasked, for the sake of mission secrecy.
Aravon nodded. “You’re right.” Turning, he set off at a brisk walk back up the road, heading north and east toward Leeward Way, which would lead them back to Portside and the Wrinkled Pig. “We’ve got to stay on mission. Which means doing what we came here to.” He glanced at Belthar, striding along beside him. “Any idea why an assassin would target Lord Virinus’ nephew and not the man himself?”
“No.”
Belthar shook his head. “But I can put together a list of people you can ask. People who might have the sort of information you want. For the right price, of course.”
Once again, the problem of lacking gold. Operating south of the Chain, they hadn’t needed money among the Fehlan clans. When dealing with the Legion, the Prince and the Duke’s orders were all the currency required. But here, in a city like Icespire, coins talked far more loquaciously than even Prince Toran’s word—to the sort of people they needed information from, at least. Men and women who thrived avoiding the Prince’s notice and breaking his laws. They’d have to deal with that problem once they regrouped at the Wrinkled Pig.
“But even with the coins,” Belthar said in a hesitant voice, “it’ll have to be Noll or Skathi doing the talking. Any one of those names on the list could be working with the Brokers, and I can’t risk being recognized.”
“Understood.” Aravon inclined his head. “The safest place for you is still on Azure Island, yeah?”
“Not many Brokers there,” Belthar replied. “Or, at least there weren’t back when I ran with them. Not many nobles willing to work with Glimmertrash.”
Bitterness echoed in the man’s voice, but the word echoed with a note of self-debasement. Being called “trash” or “scum” your whole life tended to stick with you—much as the way being called a “disappointment” by your father left deep wounds. Everything Belthar had done—joining the Duke’s regulars, becoming a Grim Reaver, and fighting to protect the Princelands—went to prove that he was better than riffraff and vermin, as the nobility tended to think of Outwarders and the denizens of the Glimmer. Yet, no matter how far he ran, no matter how high he rose, those words would be hard to escape, ingrained as they were in his mind and on his heart.
“You ever hear the story about Battle of the Sand Legion, Belthar?” Aravon asked.
“No.”
“From the history of the Twelve Kingdoms on the mainland.” Aravon’s lessons on military tactics and history had included the full recounting of this battle. “When the warriors of Al Hani invaded their neighbors, the Aayida, under the leadership of Nasnaz the Great. The Aayida had a force a fraction the size of the Al Hani, but after months of bitter fighting in the desert, Nasnaz the Great finally drew them into a pitched battle on the plains of Ruwaid.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 49