by Dora Machado
Lusielle glared at the poor excuse for a man who had ruined her life many times over. She had known from the beginning that he was fatally flawed, just as he had known on the day he claimed her that she couldn’t pledge him any affection.
But Aponte had never wanted her affection. He had wanted her servitude, and in that sense she proved to be the reluctant but dutiful servant he craved.
Over the years he had taught her hatred.
His gratification came from beating and humiliating her. His crass and vulgar tastes turned his bed into a nightmare. She felt so ashamed of the things he made her do. Still, even if she loathed him—and not just him, but the slave she had become under his rule—she had tried to make the best of it.
She had served him diligently, tending to his businesses, reorganizing his stores, rearranging his trading routes and increasing his profits. His table had always been ready. His meals had been hot and flavorsome. His sheets had been crisp and his bed had been coal-warmed every night. Perhaps due to all of this, he had seemed genuinely pleased with their marital arrangement.
Why, then, had he surrendered her so easily to the magistrate’s brute?
Aponte had to have some purpose for this betrayal. He was, above all, a practical man. He would not surrender all the advantages that Lusielle brought to him—money, standing, common sense, business acumen—without the benefit of an even greater windfall.
Lusielle couldn’t understand how, but she was sure that the bastard was going to profit handsomely from her death.
The scent of pine turned acrid and hot. Cones crackled and popped. The fire hissed a sinister murmur, a sure promise of pain. She didn’t watch the little sparks grow into flames at her feet. Instead, her eyes returned to the back of the crowd, seeking the stranger’s stare. She found him even as a puff of white smoke clouded her sight and the fire’s rising heat distorted his scarred face’s fixed expression.
The nearing flames thawed the pervasive cold chilling her bones. Flying sparks pecked at her skin. Her toes curled. Her feet flinched. Pain teased her ankles in alarming, nipping jolts. Dear gods. They were really going to burn her alive!
Lusielle shut her eyes. When she looked again, the stranger was gone from the crowd. She couldn’t blame him. She would have never chosen to watch the flame’s devouring dance.
A commotion ensued somewhere beyond the pyre. People were screaming, but she couldn’t see through the flames and smoke. She flinched when a lick of fire ignited her shift’s hem. A vile stink filled her lungs. Her body shivered in shock. She coughed, then hacked. Fear’s fiery fingers began to torment her legs.
“Come and find me,” she called to the God of fire.
And he did.
Chapter Two
DRESSED IN A COMMON LABORERS’ GARB, Severo leaned against a market stall at the back of the rabble, keeping watch. It was a testament to his lord’s dire plight that they had stolen deep into Riva’s kingdom, into yet another Twin forsaken town, running with filthy gutters and crammed with these wretched people who were braying like mules trapped in a pen.
What a miserable crowd it was, mostly baseborn churls with a taste for morbid spectacles trying to gain favor from the king’s minions. It made him sick, all of those pathetic people willing to lick the sons of whores’ filthy asses for a shot at royal favor or a handful of debased coins.
But such was the yoke of Riva’s rule. It made Severo proud to hail from one of the last bastions standing against Riva, the Free Territory of Laonia.
For a man who had spent the last few years of his life chasing ghosts and always on the run, blending with the crowd was hardly a challenge, even if the king’s guards were sniffing at his balls like a bunch of hungry mutts. Stealth was the scout’s crucial trait, the difference between tidy or messy, free or caught, breathing or stiff cold.
Severo was damn good at sly and sneaky. The others always joked he blended so well ‘cause he was so common-looking. They only said that ‘cause they were jealous of his burly looks. The truth was he had the Twin’s gift—plus a lot of years of practice with his nose to the ground and his paws on the trail. He was as good as invisible in a crowd.
The floppy cap and the ragged mantle he wore made him look like every other goon in the square. The tattered trousers and the crutch helped disguise his stiff gait, which was caused by the sword he had strapped to his leg. His knives were tucked in the back, under his belt, all seven of them. Three tubes of dazzling powders were strapped to his chest beneath his shirt.
Severo’s full attention remained on his lord, standing but a few paces away among a wall of towering thugs. How a man as brave and strong as the Lord of Laonia had netted such a grim fate was beyond Severo. What vicious force had claimed his life? And why had he been punished with such a grim legacy?
The Twins knew, the Lord of Laonia needed answers to those questions and much more, because his time was running dangerously short.
Which explained why Severo and his lord were here, on this filthy square, sticking out their necks like geese for the cook, flirting with the noose of Riva’s hangman.
His lord was also in disguise, wearing the only garment remotely capable of providing a small measure of anonymity and protection from the king’s men. Severo stifled a laugh when he remembered his adventures in the laundresses’ quarters. What a night that had been. Stealing the prized uniform hadn’t been easy, but Lord Bren looked good in the king’s colors.
The night was dark, his lord cut a striking figure as a royal guardsman, and the crimson and gold mantle might defer passing inquiry. Still Severo worried that Lord Bren’s highborn bearing could betray his presence among the common folk.
Even more dangerous was the scar on his face. It was now concealed in the depths of the hood’s shade, but should something change, it would be easily recognizable, especially to that whoremonger, Orell, the king’s man.
Severo had begged the Lord of Laonia to stay out of sight, to wait at the rendezvous point. But, true to his character, he had refused. Despite the danger, he never shied away from an opportunity to trounce Riva or to outwit and outmaneuver Orell.
Severo smirked in the darkness. His lord might be cursed and fated for tragedy, but he was fierce, tough and iron-willed. He would not surrender to his plight. He fought with both his sword and his wits, and beyond the oath, that’s what kept men like Severo by his side. Most importantly, the Lord of Laonia didn’t want his men to do his dirty deeds. He hunted his own prey.
Severo’s job tonight was to keep Lord Bren alive, not an easy task to accomplish. Since Severo had been the one who had generated the lead, investigated the prospects, and scouted the town, it was his right to look after his lord. It was a job he cherished, not only because it required focus and skill, but also because it was considered the highest honor among the Twenty.
It was also a job he abhorred. The price of failure would be catastrophic, for his lord, the Twenty and Laonia.
They’d had little trouble infiltrating the square, mostly because they had sneaked in ahead of the guards and hidden in the market’s cellars the night before Orell cordoned off the square. The plan tonight hinged on preparation, stealth and speed.
With hooded eyes, he glanced over to his right, where old Petrus splayed by the south gate, disguised as a drunkard. He might have overdone it a little. Every once in a while the breeze carried a whiff of his rank scent. He reeked of cheap ale.
Somewhere to his left, Severo made quick eye contact with Cirillo, who mingled with the beggars by the well. He found Clio already in position, high atop a tree among some local lads, hovering over the north entrance. The rookie looked nervous. Severo hoped he’d keep from shitting his pants.
That made a total of only five men in the square, too few; but his lord favored wits over numbers and smarts over brawn, and the balance of the Twenty would be ready.
The Twenty were the best that Laonia had to offer, even if glory and the gods shunned them these days. They might look like a ragged
pack of mangy wolves, but they were a fine-tuned unit, a prime collection of prized hunting dogs.
Severo’s vigilant eyes scanned the square once again. He might not be able to fight fate’s cryptic ways, but flesh he could slash and blood he could spill. He wasn’t going to allow any common man to harm his lord.
His stare fell on that ass licking weasel, Orell, who was amusing himself by torturing the woman, this time in public. He was a dangerous foe. Snaring Laonia’s clever lord was Orell’s greatest ambition. Severo smirked. Not tonight. The damn cur dog was gonna get his ass whipped.
To be fair, Orell had taken fitting precautions at the market, archers on the wall, fighters in plainclothes, guards at the gates, around the pyre and along the square, plus reinforcements outside the south gate. The north gate merited little attention. It had been broken in days past, and despite the efforts of men and beasts, it couldn’t be opened. Severo estimated the Twenty faced a force roughly four times their size, and that number didn’t include the sentinels posted at the crossroads and at the guild’s tower, which was the town’s highest point.
Those sentinels were going to be useless tonight. Severo had spotted them early on. By now, they were probably dead at the hands of Lord Hato and the handful of men he commanded.
The agitated rabble began to chant. “Burn her, burn her!”
Severo joined in the savage chorus. He didn’t envy the woman on the pyre. Whether or not she died today, she would die; and whether she burned or perished from an even worse injury, who cared? Her death was bound to be terrible either way.
That was as much pity as Severo could muster for the wench, because as far as he was concerned, women were the Lord of Laonia’s bane and he shouldn’t be here, in this cramped square that felt a lot like a death trap, right beneath Orell’s filthy nose. Severo didn’t like that his lord was skirting catastrophe, risking his life for a baseborn wench with no fortune, merit or real promise to her person.
He had tried to tell Lord Bren that the woman wasn’t worth the danger. He had even mentioned that she wasn’t particularly beautiful or distinguished. Severo was absolutely sure that she wasn’t what they needed. She was but a tradesman’s wife, for the Twin’s sake, the meek daughter of a modest innkeeper, a remedy worker, hardly any better than a common mountebank.
Severo had also mentioned the charges. So what if they were true or false? Anybody with eyes could see that there was something to the claims. The wench had the bewitching stare of a sorceress.
He winked at the plump girl giving him the eye. If only he had the time to take a dip under her skirts. The crowd cheered. A plume of white smoke rose from the pyre. The fire began to burn.
Time for the Lord of Laonia to make his choices.
Like every man of the Twenty, Severo lusted after a good fight, but this time, the woman wasn’t worth a single drop of the Twenty’s blood. He would follow his lord to Riva’s damn salt mines if he had to, but tonight he hoped that Lord Bren would recognize the woman as just another fake.
It would be a lot easier to keep him alive for a little while longer if he did.
The tension in Severo’s body ebbed when his lord walked away from the crowd towards the south gate. There would be no fight today. The Lord of Laonia would live another day. Severo exhaled a long, quiet breath.
Then it happened.
Abruptly, Lord Bren changed course, dropping a scarf on the ground, entering the leather shop at the edge of the market and disappearing behind the counter.
Damn the Twins and all the stinking gods. Severo started the count in his head.
The plump maid who had been looking his way screeched, pointing to the sky, towards the guild tower, from where a cloud of red smoke rose in a spectacular, shape-shifting puff.
Severo scratched his beard’s dark stubble. “Pretty, eh? Wanna give me a kiss?”
The woman stared at him as if he were mad before returning her attention to the sky. She wasn’t that pretty anyways. The silhouette of a sinister figure swelled against the night, a monster wearing a crown and clawing at the feeble stars. The next puff of smoke came in the shape of a crooked sword. It punched through the crowned monster, scattering the image, which wilted into nothingness.
The images struck fear into people’s hearts. Women cried, men shouted, children wailed. Orell commanded some of his guards to the guild tower. Still keeping count in his head, Severo made a mental note to ask Lord Hato how he had managed to conjure such a hackle-raising, ball-shrinking distraction, even though it was highly unlikely that the old master would give away his secrets.
As he reached the end of his count, Severo pulled up his scarf and covered his mouth. At the same time, old Petrus struck, disabling the guards and hacking the ropes that held up the south portico. The portico dropped, dividing Orell’s force and isolating the men inside the square. The contest was about to start.
Severo sprinted along the north wall, deploying all three of his powder tubes as he ran. Bang, bang, bang. He kept track of Cirillo in his peripheral view, who, methodical as always, retrieved his bow from the well where it had been concealed the night before, loaded it, and fired, eliminating the archers on the wall—one, two, three, four.
The air sparkled with iridescent crystals. The crowd began to cough, fleeing from the explosions, clearing the way, moving towards the south side in unison like a wild herd.
Severo heard the hoofs of a horse clattering on cobblestones before he spotted his lord atop his steed. The beast cleared the leather shop’s counter with an extraordinary leap spanning not just the counter and the merchandise piled atop it, but also the startled shopkeeper and his frightened apprentice. Unsheathing his sword, Severo turned around to keep the path open, clashing almost immediately with two plainly-dressed guardsmen, whom he dispatched without hesitation.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the familiar movement of a guard on the ground putting an arrow to the bow, aiming for the Lord of Laonia.
Severo threw his knife.
It plunked into the archer’s chest like an arrow itself. Anticipating Lord Bren’s trajectory, Severo threw three more knives, eliminating the threats in his lord’s path.
By then, Clio had opened the north portico. It had been Severo himself who had stolen into the market square three nights ago and applied a coating of Lord Hato’s especially prepared jamming glue to the portico’s hinges.
At that time, Severo had been doubtful that anything could make those hinges move again, but it seemed that Lord Hato’s thinning solution had worked and the second phase of the plan was about to begin.
The rest happened very quickly.
Clio’s swift bow sent Orell and his men diving for cover. For sure, the kid could shoot. Several members of the Twenty scaled the walls and joined Clio in providing cover for those on the ground.
As the Lord of Laonia spurred his whinnying steed into the burning pyre, Severo teamed up with Cirillo and Petrus, forming a semicircle around the pyre, fighting with their backs to the fire, engaging the few defenders who dared the arrows and the powders with their swords. Severo stood his ground despite the heat singeing the hair in the back of his head, until he heard the rustle of ropes breaking under a blade and his lord’s triumphant shout as he goaded his horse towards the north gate.
Covered by the friendly archers, Severo followed, bolting through the gate, along with Petrus and Cirillo, before the effect of the powders dwindled and the crowd and the guards recovered. As soon as they were out, the portico dropped, the archers scrambled down and Clio rushed to reseal the portico’s hinges with more of Lord Hato’s glue.
“They won’t be coming after us now,” the kid said as he leapt down from the wall and ran with the others into the forest, where their horses were hidden.
Severo mounted his horse and raced down the track he’d scouted the day before, chasing after his lord. He whooped. The plan had worked, just as his lord had said it would! Only three of the Twenty had sustained injuries and they were all
minor.
Sure, they were on the lam again, but the Lord of Laonia was alive and that pile of crap Orell was stuck in that stinking market for a while. With a little luck, the woman had made it as well.
Poor wretch. If she was indeed alive, she had leapt from one kind of execution to another.
Chapter Three
THE SOUND OF THE SWORD’S BLADE rustling against the sharpening stone soothed Bren. The sinuous sequence of the long sword’s curves was a familiar rhythm to his hands. Up and down, the blade offered a wild ride as three curves of perfectly balanced metal ended at the well-honed point, accounting for the blade’s singular course.
The weapon was perfectly built to fool the bone’s hard protection and infiltrate the densest parts of the human body, where the essence of life was meant to be kept intact. Wielding the sword was something Bren did well, with skill, conviction and honor. And so it was that whenever his mind was restless he resorted to sharpening the blade, for it was—and would always remain so—by far a fairer executioner than he would ever be.
The sword belonged to his noble line, the house of Uras. It was beautiful, and not just to his warrior’s trained eye. By all accounts, the ivory-carved hilt was a work of art. On the hilt, the black stone of the house of Uras presided over all his killings.
It was an heirloom of death, a weapon worthy of his cursed fate.
“Well?” Bren said, unable to contain his impatience any longer.
Hato replaced the bandage on the woman’s back and covered her with a blanket. His sharp features were grimmer than usual as he delivered the bad news with a sigh and a nod.
The cave where Bren had set up camp seemed darker than before.
It was just like Hato to ask, “Have you—?”
“No,” Bren said, turning the blade on his lap. “She’s too sick.”
“It’s been four days since you fetched her from the pyre,” Hato said. “The men are eager to steal out of the Kingdom before Orell finds us. She’s slowing us down.”