by M. C. Planck
Loaded down with the saddlebags, he followed Lalania back to the front of the inn. She pushed the door open, and they went inside. Christopher immediately began missing the barn.
Two groups of surly men lounged around the main room, drinking. Christopher dumped his bags at the foot of an empty, rough-hewn table and sat down. Lalania sat next to him, making herself more inconspicuous than he had thought possible.
A timid blonde girl approached them with bowls of stew and mugs of beer on a tray. One of the men pinched her as she passed, and she almost dropped the tray. Christopher started to say something, but Lalania kicked his shin under the table.
“Hey now,” called a man from across the room. “Keep your filthy paws off.”
The offender glared at his challenger. For an instant Christopher thought a fight would break out on the spot. Then the pincher backed down.
“Nothing worth pawing, anyway. No more meat than a dog’s bone.” He turned his attention to his table, where his fellows chuckled appreciatively.
After that, Christopher didn’t have the heart to tell the serving girl how miserable the stew was. He ate as much as he could bear and tried to wash it down with the bitter, dark beer. Lalania picked at her bowl, equally uninspired.
The girl went around the room with another tray of mugs. Her erstwhile champion stared at the pincher, who pretended to be oblivious to the tension. The man leaned back, apparently casually, just in time to elbow the girl in the backside.
Amazingly, she didn’t spill any mugs. The champion glowered even darker; the offender smirked; the girl worked her way to Christopher’s table, and now he was the subject of her champion’s minatory glare.
He tried to ignore the affair, looking down at his plate and feeling small. He could hardly defend himself, since he hadn’t done anything yet. Best to let it slide. Then the serving girl stabbed him in the side of the neck with a dozen feathered darts.
His first reaction was prosaic. “Ow,” he said, and reached up to the wound. When he felt his heart begin to slow with every beat, he stood up, reaching for his sword. Lalania drew back in horror, and then he froze.
He could not move. He tried to peer to the side, to see the face of this serving girl who had just poisoned him, but he could not move his head.
“Kill him now,” the serving girl hissed. “Hurry!”
Everyone in the room stared at him with surpassing interest.
“Shut up, bitch,” the champion said without taking his eyes off Christopher. “You don’t rule here. I do.”
Lalania darted for the door. She only made three steps before men leapt from their chairs and grabbed her.
The champion laughed and stood up. He was absurdly tall. “Come, my Bloody Mummers, let’s treat our guest like the nobility he is. Dinner and a show, lads, what do you say? Can we put on a show for the good Curate?”
“Aye!” chorused the entire room.
“And what shall it be?”
“What it always is,” said one of the men standing in front of Lalania. “Rapine and murder.” He reached forward and casually tore Lalania’s blouse open, the cloth shredding under his brutal strength. “Why, it’s the only show we know.”
“Wise words, Carruthers, and none truer were ever spoken. I do believe I’ll start, as I always do.” The tall man crossed the room while the men holding Lalania pinned her to a table. “Never you fear, Curate. You’ll not be neglected. Jiminy’s like that. Though I fear he will have to make a rush of it, as the poison will only last the hour.”
Lalania struggled like a woman on a cliff slowly realizing she had lost her balance and was now doomed to fall.
“That’s enough,” she said somewhat incongruously. One of the men backhanded her in the face. Her head jerked, blood spilling from her split lip.
The other man reached out with a knife and began to cut away at her trousers. The tall man’s eyes were drawn to the girl’s peril, as were all the men in the room. Christopher realized that for one second they had forgotten about him.
In the back of his mind, he could feel the presence of the illusionary animated suit of armor that answered his prayers every morning and issued him his spells. It was offering him something now.
Freedom.
It was not fitting that an Acolyte of Travel should have his way impeded. By the grace of his Patron he could walk again, if only for a few steps, for he was only a small servant.
As he drew his sword he muttered the strength spell under his breath. He promised the avatar he would put its gifts to good use.
“Dark damn you,” the serving girl cried, and a dagger clipped the side of his neck, thrown from across the room. She had not been distracted by Lalania’s nakedness. And now she was throwing knives at him. “Are you proof against every trial?”
He did her the greatest insult he could conceive of. He ignored her.
The tall man realized something was wrong. He instinctively stepped back as Christopher lunged, reaching for his own sword. But the two men holding Lalania down were distracted by her struggles and the promise of getting her trousers off. Christopher gave them something else to think about.
Putting all his weight and divine strength into it, he drove his katana through the back of one man and into the chest of the other. Underneath them Lalania was bathed in a shower of blood.
The room erupted into pandemonium as men drew weapons and shouted. Above them all the tall man shouted loudest.
“Take him, damn it! He’s only fifth. We’ll feast off his head for a year.”
Christopher should have made a telling retort, but he couldn’t. His blade had stuck in the first man, and he was struggling not to let the weight of the corpse drag the sword down onto Lalania. The second man, on the other side of the table, had disappeared from view. Gracelessly Christopher wrestled the body on the end of his sword around, put his foot on its back, and shoved it away.
By then it was too late to bluff. Christopher didn’t care. Bullies had always been his least favorite kind of people, and now he had a room full of them, a sword, and a perfectly good reason to make sushi. He was filled with a deep and pure hatred for the men who assaulted Lalania, who had planned to destroy her for their transitory amusement. And floating above all was the righteous judgment he would soon dispense on that wicked serving girl.
He knew her, though not her face. He had seen her cloaked form dancing in the snow. He had heard her voice in the deepest darkness of the King’s dungeons. He had held the calling card she left him in Carrhill.
And as soon as he had dispensed with these savage beasts, he would pay her a measure of justice.
The Bloody Mummers gang fell on him ravenously, with swords, axes, and daggers clouding around him like buzzing bees. He ignored their stings, his tael binding his wounds in their wake. Eventually he would run out of tael, and then their weapons would kill him. But not yet.
Spinning, he stepped, and the katana lashed out and down. Another man fell, cut open from shoulder to hip, his guts spilling out on the floor. Stepping to put a table between himself and three men, Christopher bought respite from their attacks for a heartbeat. Long enough to terrorize two others not so lucky. With the upstroke of his sword he cut one man’s thigh to the bone, blood spurting in a bright-red arc from the severed artery. The man tried to step back, but his leg was only loosely attached. He fell, too much in shock to even whimper.
The other man retreated, holding a pair of daggers in front of him like a shield. Christopher recognized the carrottop. Jiminy.
Men were clambering over the table, spurred on by the tall man. Christopher sprang forward, leaving them behind. Jiminy batted at the katana with his little knives, but magic fueled Christopher’s righteous wrath. He pushed the katana into Jiminy’s chest, its point sinking deep as the redheaded man’s retreat ended abruptly on a table, while Christopher’s sword continued its advance.
Jiminy opened his mouth to threaten, to complain, or perhaps to beg. Only blood came out. The redhead s
lid off the end of the blade and flopped, drowning as his ruptured lungs filled.
Two men leapt on Christopher from behind, high and low, at the knees and shoulders. Miraculously they slid off, as if he were a greased pig. One of his assailants rolled on the ground in front of him. Christopher stepped over him, and in doing so, dragged his sword edge across the man’s throat.
A crossbow quarrel whizzed past his head. The men in front of him regrouped, preparing for a charge. Now there were three to tackle him: perhaps too many. He tried to step back, to open some distance.
But failed. The benefits of his faith had run its course, and now he was frozen again, merely mortal.
An explosion, a flash of light, the acrid tang of smoke, and one of the men in front him slumped to the floor. Lalania was behind the bar, the pistol in her hands.
“Kill them both, idiots!” the tall champion roared.
Lalania shot him.
“Dark damned gods, kill the Darkling bitch!” he screamed louder, staggering back from the shot but not falling, a sure sign that had ranks of his own.
Men began to rush her, while others inched toward Christopher. Apparently they thought he was only pretending to be paralyzed, and no one wanted to be the first to die.
He wasn’t pretending. He had used his temporary freedom to kill six men, and Lalania had killed one. It wasn’t going to be enough. Half a dozen men still stood, and they were beginning to realize that they had won. They had been savage before; now, with half their number dead and dying, they would be psychotic. The best he and Lalania could hope for was to die quickly, while the men still raged. If the tall man regained control, he would torture them in ways that could not be described.
Even if Christopher thought he could still come back from that, the Saint needed at least a hair. And his assassin knew that. The serving girl had disappeared once he started moving, but he knew she would return to burn his corpse and scatter the ashes to eternal death.
None of this mattered to his body, which refused to obey his commands. None of it mattered to his avatar, whose presence was gone, his allotted protection expired for the day. The bright and glowing joy he had taken in destroying these monsters collapsed into fear and grief.
The front door burst open, and a young woman rushed into the room, followed by an army of young men. Christopher’s men, led by the stalwart Kennet. They stared, confused and uncertain, until Lalania shot another one of the Mummers. Then the soldiers turned their rifles on the thugs, and in thunder and lightning and smoke the battle ended.
“Colonel!” they shouted at him, saluting, wondering why he did not move.
Find the assassin, he tried to say. His jaw refused to move; his tongue and lips were as numb as a needle-happy dentist could hope for.
“He has been poisoned,” Lalania told them, coming out from behind the bar. She clutched her blouse together in the front with one hand, held the still-smoking pistol in the other. “We have to get him to my College. Tonight, or he will die. Only the Loremasters can save him.”
The fear in Christopher’s stomach lurched and twisted. Lalania had heard the tall man say it would only last an hour. The incongruity of her complaint came back to him. She had been terrified by the attack . . . but not surprised.
The other woman spoke. “I led you here, to succor your lord, on the instructions and guidance of our College. You trusted me for this; now I say, trust us a little further. Give Lalania your fastest horse and let them ride through the night.”
His men stared at him, miserable and confused. Kennet’s earnest face hung like a sad puppy.
Lalania accepted a coat from one of the men, trying to cover herself. She did a bad job of it, the coat hanging open and revealing a swath of delicate skin from neck to midriff. Christopher knew her well enough to know it was an act. It made her look vulnerable and desirable at the same time. It was a distraction.
“Your foes are destroyed,” she said, hugging the other troubadour like a long-lost sister. “Do not dally and let them win by indecision.”
His men had no chance. Against ten times as many slavering monsters they could hold forever, but against two pretty, conniving girls they crumbled helplessly. Christopher raged and fumed, to no visible effect.
The smoke seemed to be getting worse, not better. The front door slammed shut, as if in a great wind.
“Damn,” Lalania said, and Christopher believed her fear genuine, even while he knew it could only be part of the act.
A man went to the door and found it unyielding. Another joined him, to no avail.
The sound of crackling logs.
“Dark gods,” the other troubadour swore. “The inn’s on fire!”
Heat leached down from the ceiling, terrifying in its promise.
Three men threw themselves against the door. It held firm, barred by magic. Magic Christopher could have undone, if he could have moved.
“Cut it down,” the troubadour cried. Then, when his men looked at her blankly, she swore again. “Not one of you bloody fools has an ax or sword? Not one?”
In one corner of the room, a beam fell from the roof, flames writhing around it. From the hole it left burst light and smoke. Then the smoke reversed, rushing up in the draft, and the flames grew brighter.
Kennet ran to the door, began hammering a grenade into place with the butt of his gun. Other men grabbed Christopher, hauled him bodily out of the way, two flipping over tables. They crouched behind them, dragging Christopher down, sheltering the girls with their bodies. His limbs moved when his men pulled or pushed on them, staying wherever they were left, like a clothing-store mannequin.
An explosion shook the building, shrapnel ripping into the tabletop. The men rose up and carried Christopher through the hanging shards of the door. Behind them the building began to fall.
Outside in the cool air, the heat beat at their backs. When they had retreated far enough, they turned Christopher around so he could see. The inn was in full flame, its second story wreathed in red. As portions of the building fell in, sparks and flames leapt up. In a few more minutes the building would be nothing but a glowing pile of embers.
“The barn!” Lalania shouted over the roar of the flames. Men started running, but it was too late. Even from here Christopher could see the flames rising from it.
Kennet, acting on training and habit, snapped out a report to Christopher. “One casualty, sir. We left Dobbs to watch our horses. Now he’s dead and our horses are gone.”
“There were a dozen other horses in the barn,” Lalania said.
Royal had been in that barn, too.
“The barn is empty now.” Kennet ignored her, speaking directly to Christopher. “Whoever loosed our horses loosed those as well. Spooked by fire, they will run for at least a quarter mile. Permission to spread out and search for our mounts, sir?”
Gods, no, Christopher thought. That’s the stupidest thing to do right now.
“Do it,” Lalania said. “But come back when you find the first one. We need to go now.”
Take your time, Christopher thought.
Then Royal, stupid loyal Royal, came trotting up out of the darkness. He whinnied at Christopher, prodding him with his big stupid head. Lalania scratched his nose, and he whuffled affectionately at her. She stepped to the side of the horse, held up her foot until Kennet reflexively made a stirrup out of his hands for her.
Vaulting onto Royal’s back, she stroked his mane.
“Put him up,” she told the sergeant. “Wrap his arms around me. Royal can bear us both.”
“I will stay with you,” the other troubadour said, “until you find your mounts. Then I will lead you to our College, where you will find your lord safe and sound, in honored luxury.”
I will beat your Darkling heads in if you fall for this, Christopher fumed. Can’t you see how they are separating us again? The night was full of dangerous women, and they were going to send him out into it as helpless as a sack of potatoes.
Kennet rubbed his
jaw, torn with indecision. Christopher relented. The boy was seventeen years old. He’d seen Christopher treat Lalania like an equal. She’d had the run of his camp, passed on orders from him to the troops. And now she was sitting on top of his warhorse, her coat hanging open to reveal the soft curve of a perfect breast.
Three men boosted Christopher to the back of the horse. Lalania put all of her charms to work, convincing Royal to stand still through these strange shenanigans. Christopher probably couldn’t have done that.
Then she wrapped his arms around her tightly, where they stayed of their own accord. Clenching her fists in Royal’s mane, she kicked the horse in the ribs, and it lumbered into a gallop.
Once again Christopher rode under the twinkling starlight, but much more uncomfortably than before. His legs hung down, inert and useless. What really bothered him was the feel of Lalania’s soft skin on his arms. She had burst loose from her coat and now jiggled and bounced with every step.
“Gods, I am pathetic,” she muttered. “I have to paralyze my paramour to get him to cop a feel.” She adjusted her coat to cover herself again, no mean feat while they galloped bareback through the murky dark.
“Pathetic” wasn’t the word Christopher would have chosen. “Traitorous” seemed more appropriate. The curious pace they had set for the last three days, alternating between hurried and ambling, the choice of route she had taken, all made sense now. She had been a part of this. She had brought him here only when everything was ready and delivered him to his enemies.
He wondered when her plans had turned to ambush. Was it the night she had spent trying to seduce him? When he was teaching her how to use the pistol? Or perhaps weeks ago, after the ulvenmen had failed to kill him.
Perhaps she and her College had been planning it all along.
Royal could not keep this pace for long. But he didn’t have to. A mile or so up the road a covered wagon waited, surrounded by armed men and more pretty girls. Lalania pulled to a stop amongst them, calmed Royal while strangers lifted him down. The horse didn’t like this. Flattening his ears, he kicked with one rear leg, and a man went flying.