Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  “The Queen needs to know who her enemies are, Baron Longford. You are one. Is your brother? Is the Duke just using his younger sibling to get his dirty work done so nothing leads back to him? Just be nice and cooperate. We don’t want this to get ugly.”

  “I see,” the Baron said, exhaling roughly. “Threats. One moment.”

  Baron Longford reached out and grabbed his wife’s bird by its long orange legs, pulling it off his arm. Its talons ripped the sleeve of his fine coat, the bird’s impotent wings flapping as the Baron hung it upside-down. With a savage swing of his arm, he bashed the bird’s head into the oak tree, feathers exploding into the air.

  He tossed the lifeless body into the river and wiped his hands together. “There. I swore that I would not kill the bird until I could do it with equanimity, and I have done it.”

  The man was as mad as his wife. Davon took a step backwards. The Baron stepped toward the river, removing his coat and throwing it into the water after the bird.

  “What are you doing?” Davon asked.

  “You know what is truly amusing?” Baron Longford said, stepping down into the water. “You and I, Mr. Carver, both hated attending the House of Lords. No one paid us any mind at all. The other Lords would be hard pressed to have even remembered our names or known our faces only a year ago. But now, here we are, the two of us, at the center of the most important event of our age.”

  The river directly around the Baron’s legs turned out of their normal flow and toward him as if he were a lodestone. Stranger still, it seemed to flow into him. And while it appeared a trick of light and shadow at first, his stretching shirt and pants confirmed that what Davon saw was no illusion. Olivanne Longford was swelling, growing.

  “Tell me,” the Baron said, voice deepening as his size increased, “what gift did the Eternal Flame bestow upon you, Mr. Carver?”

  The Baron’s coat and shirt ripped all the way up the sleeves and back, pants riding up and splitting along the thighs.

  Davon pulled his knives from his belt. “Get back to town, Mr. Goodwin. Get Justus Paige and leave. Now.”

  Mr. Goodwin stared at Baron Longford, transfixed.

  “Now!”

  The old man turned, jogging off at a sickly pace. Davon faced the Baron. The transformation was complete. Only a stretched breech cloth clung to the Baron’s waist. Massive and muscular he was, dripping wet and knee-deep in the river. A scar in the shape of a wave crossed his chest.

  “Care fer another go, Mr. Harper?” the Baron said in the low speech of the streets.

  Davon swallowed. Dales Marter and Olivanne Longford were the same man.

  Chapter 29

  Dales stepped out of the river like a mountain stepping foot onto the plain. “I quite fancy those daggers of yours, Mr. Carver,” he said, returning to his genteel speech. With a massive hand he reached up and yanked a dead branch off of the oak tree he stood beneath.

  Davon brought up his daggers. He had to buy time. If Mr. Goodwin could get to his horse and then to the Brawny Maid before the Baron could alert anyone, they would get a good head start. If the Baron got past him, they would end up fighting their way out of Longford. Unfortunately, Mr. Goodwin’s drunken, elderly pace meant Davon would have to conjure up something a little longer than a short delay—more like a decade.

  Dales hammered down with his improvised weapon. Davon sidestepped, a small branch off the main trunk whipping his arm, leaving a stinging welt. Keeping an eye out for rocks in the path, Davon backed away farther down the trail, pulling Dales away from Mr. Goodwin. Davon could no longer see the old man among the trees and hoped his old legs had some iron left.

  “You’re quick,” Dales said, thrusting the branch at him like a fire poker. “Is that the gift the Eternal Flame gave you?”

  The brute swung the branch at his head, Davon ducking.

  Dales grinned. “No, you were fast when I faced you in the warehouse. So what’s your gift, Carver? A quick wit? Clearly not discernment.”

  Davon finally understood what power aided the Baron. “You found the Primal Water. Or it found you.”

  “Obviously. And something more.”

  Davon had no time to think about what that meant. The Baron charged, driving the branch down from high to low at an angle. Davon rolled under it, another protruding branch whipping his forearm. As he rose from his roll, he sliced the Baron’s massive thigh with the dagger and leapt away, turning back to face his foe. As in the warehouse, the wound dripped water, not blood, spattering on the dust of the trail.

  Olivanne turned, lips curled up in a snarl. He stepped to the side and inserted his foot into the river. Immediately the gash in his leg knit together.

  “You really are quite nimble, Mr. Carver. Quite out of the ordinary. Have you always been so?”

  Run, Mr. Goodwin!

  “It is no business of yours, Baron Longford. Give up your attack and come peacefully. You’ve been exposed. Your death or mine is unnecessary.”

  “Unnecessary? Hardly relevant. Everyone dies, Mr. Carver. No one’s death is necessary or unnecessary. It simply is.”

  Rivulets of sweat ran down Davon’s back, the nauseous smell of rotting flesh souring his stomach. “I’m guessing that you think my death is necessary. Mr. Paige’s, too.”

  “Not necessary,” Dales said. “Expedient, yet still irrelevant. But you’re trying to keep me from stopping Mr. Goodwin, aren’t you?”

  Dales cast the branch at him, and it whirled toward his chest hard and fast. Davon rolled flat on his back to avoid it, but the end dropped down on its trajectory and punched his left shin. Pain erupted up his leg, but he fought it off and stood. His enemy had fled, bolting nearly naked down the trail back toward the house. Davon gave chase. Every fall of his left foot shot pain up his leg like someone was driving a nail into the bone. He grimaced and limped on until the pain cleared and he hit his stride.

  The trees whipped by, gradually thinning as he neared Baron Longford’s manor. By the time Davon managed to reach the bare back lawn, the Baron had four more strides until he would reach the struggling Mr. Goodwin. Davon flung one of his sabertooth daggers, straining his shoulder with the force. End over end it flew until it hit its mark: the meaty part of the Baron’s right thigh. It sank deep.

  The Baron’s leg failed him and he crashed to the grass. The brute rolled and yanked the dagger free with his right hand, a gout of water spilling out. In an instant, the massive man stood, grasping the weapon by the tip and flinging it back at his attacker.

  In Davon’s mind, the trajectory and spin of the dagger came slowly enough to be discernible. Without conscious thought he snatched it out of the air by the handle, the velocity behind the throw enough to sting his skin as the hilt slapped his palm.

  The Baron’s eyes shot wide, then, face red and teeth gritted, he charged, his gait as hampered by his wound. Davon redoubled his speed, sprinting directly for the behemoth. As he neared closely enough to see the Baron’s eyes, Davon feigned a throw with a dagger, pulling the Baron up short for just a moment. With a sidestep and a twirl, Davon took a gash out of Dales’s thigh with his left dagger and another to the hip with his right.

  And he kept going.

  Mr. Goodwin had reached his horse. Davon craned his neck to see Baron Olivanne Longford hobbling back toward the forest, water pouring down his injured legs.

  “By the Flame, what was that?” a sweaty, gasping Mr. Goodwin said. The exertion seemed to have cleared some of the indisposition the rum had inflicted.

  Davon mounted Ceril. “Baron Longford’s found the Primal Water. He is its servant. Now ride hard, Mr. Goodwin.”

  Ceril’s healthier gait brought Davon to the Brawny Maid well before Mr. Goodwin. He pulled open the door and darted inside, heading toward the back. The Brawny Maid herself pulled him up short.

  “Mr. Carver, a word,” she said.

  “I’ve not a moment to lose.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If you’d listen for a moment,
I could keep you from losing several precious minutes. Your friends left not ten minutes ago. That bastard Mr. Paige looked much relieved, he did, if you take my meaning.”

  Her tone was trying to communicate something he didn’t understand. “Relieved?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Much happier than one would expect for someone who was recently in the company of Mr. Goodwin. Mr. Killcreek seemed quite eager to get underway.”

  “Did they say where they were heading?” Davon asked, finally understanding her hints.

  “Of course not, but the carriage pushed south from here.”

  Landon Killcreek had betrayed them. Davon turned back to the door, walking slowly. Where would he take Mr. Paige? Who would shelter the man?

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Carver,” the Brawny Maid said as he walked out the door.

  Mr. Goodwin and his nag trotted up, both looking floppy and ready to fall over. Davon related what the tavern keeper had told him.

  “Flame and flood!” Mr. Goodwin swore. “Killcreek’s decided to look after his own interests then. Well, that is unexpected.”

  Davon frowned. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Believe it, Lord Carver,” Mr. Goodwin said as he dismounted. “Killcreek was the Queen’s Huntmaster before she found out he was letting certain Lords pay him money to poach on her lands. I think the call of riches may have seduced our brawny compatriot again. Mr. Paige has plenty of it to offer.”

  “But if Landon were caught, the Queen would—”

  “He is as good in the outdoors as you are, I suspect,” Mr. Goodwin said, wiping his brow. “And as you so skillfully demonstrated, it is possible to disappear if you are clever. The question is, where will they go?”

  Davon stroked Ceril’s neck while he pondered. Justus Paige was a key link to the conspiracy, but everyone in the conspiracy, including Baron Longford, would want his mouth shut or inhaling dirt. They couldn’t kill him openly, and that was Mr. Paige’s only advantage. But if Killcreek was playing Mr. Paige, he might simply take the money and ditch the man.

  “Brighton,” Mr. Goodwin said.

  “Why?” Davon asked. “They’d just as soon kill him as Baron Longford.”

  “Ah, but the family at Brighton doesn’t know they are exposed yet. You forget that there are only a handful of us that know Mr. Paige’s information. If they can get to Brighton, Mr. Paige may be able to procure more money and some help to disappear. Lord Brighton would certainly do anything to rid himself of the man. Mr. Killcreek might just offer the Lord a secret deal of his own.”

  “To do what?”

  Mr. Goodwin rolled his eyes. “Really, Lord Carver. You must get a little more cynical before your innocence kills you. Mr. Killcreek could offer to kill Mr. Paige for a tidy sum.”

  Davon nodded. “We’ve got to leave before the Baron sends people after us, but that horse of yours doesn’t look steady enough.”

  Mr. Goodwin looked around. “I agree. One moment.”

  Without hesitation he chose the healthiest looking horse in front of the Brawny Maid, a dappled brown, and mounted it.

  Davon frowned. “Mr. Goodwin, I can purchase you a horse. Get down this instant!”

  Mr. Goodwin responded with a kick to the horse’s flanks, galloping south. Davon pulled himself astride Ceril. “Time to go again, my friend. I’ll find you a nice pasture before the day is out, I promise.”

  Ceril whickered and they were off, passing Mr. Goodwin and leading the way south out of the thick of buildings in Longford. The road to Brighton passed along the western edge of the Royal Wood, the Elder Forest whose eastern edge he had explored when he had visited the Lady Hightower about her ledgers. The road builders kept the road at least a mile from the towering trees, fearful that the creatures inside would trouble travelers.

  On the west side of the road, an open, fertile plain stretched away to the horizon, gentle hills spotted with small pockets of trees and animals. Mighty herds of longhorned bison and mammoth traversed those plains in all seasons, and in the fall, the migrations from the north swelled their numbers.

  They pushed the horses hard, Ceril laboring, unused to the exercise inflicted upon him during the last few days. Davon knew Mr. Killcreek would push the hired carriage hard; the former huntmaster had a lot to lose. Hours they rode, and Davon was forced to rest the horses—and Mr. Goodwin—more than he wanted.

  As evening came on, Davon wondered if they had gone in the wrong direction, but just as the sun dipped its toe behind the western horizon, they caught their first glimpse of a small black carriage stopped on the road a mile ahead of them at the bottom of a long decline. The carriage driver was resting and feeding the horses at a small traveler’s station, a small shed stocked with provender. Davon reined in his horse.

  Mr. Goodwin pulled up beside him, face a grimace. “I’m not sure I can walk anymore,” he stated, “so whatever you have planned, let’s see if we can take that carriage.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the right carriage,” Davon said. The people were little more than specks from their vantage point.

  “Let’s take it anyway,” Mr. Goodwin suggested.

  But it was the right carriage. A blob unmistakably Justus got out of the carriage, followed by the tall Mr. Killcreek, rifle in hand. They had two guards, one riding horse and one standing on the side rail. Davon thought about a quick attempt at concealment, but Killcreek’s stance looking up the hill toward them signaled that their presence was known.

  “It is the right one,” Davon announced to his compatriot. “Two armed guards and Killcreek, to boot. This won’t be easy.”

  Mr. Goodwin took a swig of from a waterskin that had come with his recently acquired horse. “You’re the muscle, Mr. Carver. If they push through the night, they can reach Brighton by morning, so you had better come up with a plan soon.”

  There was no way to avoid a confrontation. The direct path of the road and the open country around them provided no avenues to shortcut their path or mount much of an ambush. Since Mr. Killcreek knew he was being followed, he would certainly choose to push forward through the night rather than stop and let their pursuers have a chance at them.

  “Do you shoot well, Mr. Goodwin?” Davon asked.

  “I’m a man of the blade, I’m afraid,” he answered. “A small blade.”

  “We’ve got not choice,” Davon said. “Let’s go talk to them. Keep a least one hand up to show we’re not a threat. If shooting starts, ride toward the woods as fast as you can.”

  Davon made sure his daggers were within easy reach and loosened his loaded rifle in its riding sheath. Urging Ceril forward, he clamped his knees on the horse’s sides and raised his hands into the air. Mr. Goodwin followed behind, one hand on his reins and the other partially raised.

  Justus jumped back into the carriage, but Mr. Killcreek and the two carriage guards took position in the middle of the road behind the carriage, weapons in hand but lowered. The carriage driver had remounted, glancing back nervously from his perch. As they neared, Davon could make out a single wine barrel secured to the rear of the carriage.

  “I’ll bet that barrel’s got money rather than wine inside,” Mr. Goodwin speculated. “Mr. Killcreek’s pay. Though if it is wine, then I reiterate my earlier advice to take the carriage.”

  Mr. Killcreek took two steps forward, bringing his gun up. “That’s far enough!”

  “Put the gun down, Killcreek,” Mr. Goodwin said as they both pulled their mounts to a stop. “You may be greedy, but I never pegged you for a murderer.”

  He didn’t lower the gun. “Off the horses, both of you.”

  “See reason, Mr. Killcreek,” Davon said. “This can still end well. Let’s go to Bellshire together. I’m sure the Queen’s reward for completing this task will be money enough, even for you.”

  Mr. Killcreek sighted down the barrel. “I said off the horses!”

  Davon slid down, being sure to dismount within easy reach of his rifle. After a lot of swearing, Mr. Goodwi
n finally alighted on the ground, wincing in pain as he tried to prod his legs into purposeful movement. Davon used the delay to survey the men before him. The driver and the carriage guards were certainly not professional men. They looked like tavern rats ready to do anything for ready coin.

  “Come to your senses, Mr. Killcreek,” Davon continued. “I don’t know what Mr. Paige promised you, but it’s not worth a life on the run.”

  Mr. Killcreek fired. Davon flinched back, reaching for his rifle, but the rifle moved away from him as Ceril fell, a bullet in his head. Shock paralyzed him as the mounted guard aimed and shot Mr. Goodwin’s horse in the flank. It screamed and reared before tearing away into the plains.

  Davon froze. He killed Ceril!

  Davon’s heart pumped anger, hot and red, up to his face and down to his fingertips. He had killed Ceril. Davon bent down toward Ceril’s corpse for his rifle, but Mr. Killcreek fired, bullet sinking into Ceril’s flesh near his hand.

  “Stand down, Mr. Carver,” Mr. Killcreek said.

  Davon stood up slowly, three guns trained on him. Both of Mr. Goodwin’s hands stretched above his head, but his face was not fearful. The old man’s mouth was turned down in disgust, and a twitch had settled into his right eye.

  “Now, Mr. Carver, Mr. Goodwin,” Mr. Killcreek said, “I am going to ride away. I will take my fortune and Mr. Paige where he wants to go and you will never see me again. If I find you following me, I’ll kill Mr. Paige and take my fortune anyway. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  Rage seethed within Davon, begging for release. Killing Ceril would not go unpunished; he didn’t care if he got shot. The mounted guard had reloaded and kept his weapon trained on him as Mr. Killcreek and the other guard turned back toward the carriage. Davon put his arms down, and in a fluid, familiar motion reached under his coat, palm grasping the smooth hilt of the sabertooth knife.

  He flung it at the mounted carriage guard who had a choice of firing his rifle or dodging the spinning dagger. He tried to do both. His shot passed high and wide, the bullet buzzing by Davon’s right ear. Davon’s knife sank into the man’s exposed ribs as he turned away, grunting as the sharpened tooth punctured his lung. He fell hard to the ground.