Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  The rifle report turned Killcreek and the other guard around, both bringing their weapons to bear. Guessing Killcreek the better shot, Davon flung his second knife at him, forcing him into the same choice as his downed companion: a sure shot or a sure dodge. Killcreek dodged, flinging himself to the right and ruining his aim.

  Davon knew the shot was coming. The remaining guard fired. Again, an instinct not his own took over and he flung himself backwards onto the belly of Ceril’s still corpse, rolling heels over head while pulling his rifle out of its sheath. Instead of coming to a crouch behind Ceril, Davon dropped prone. Then Mr. Killcreek made his mistake and fired prematurely, the bullet whizzing harmlessly overhead.

  The guard was nearly done reloading his rifle. Mr. Killcreek had just started to reload his. Tactically, the guard was the right choice for his shot, but Davon didn’t care. He snapped to a crouch, pulling the rifle butt to his shoulder. Mr. Killcreek looked up and Davon put a bullet through his brain. He crumpled backwards into the weeds.

  There was no time to reload. The guard pulled up his rifle and Davon prepared to jump away again. Mr. Goodwin’s knife took the guard in the neck before his finger could squeeze the trigger. He dropped to his knees and collapsed.

  “Hi’yah!”

  Justus Paige’s head popped out of the window briefly as the carriage sprang away, the driver whipping the horses as if a pack of sabercats nipped at their wheels.

  Kneeling at Ceril’s side, Davon opened his saddlebag and retrieved his ammunition, shoving a bullet into the breech loader. He took a knee, sighting up on the carriage as it drove in a line in front of him. The bulk of the carriage concealed the driver and the horses, not that Davon would stoop to shooting the animals.

  The carriage picked up speed, the dust of its passing catching the slanting beams of the evening sun. Time seemed to slow. Davon steadied his breathing and calmed his beating heart. He felt the breeze’s direction as it caressed his face. With a practiced eye he lined up his target, adjusting his aim for distance and speed.

  And fired.

  The bullet leapt from the barrel and into the air, a cloud of smoke blooming around the muzzle. The report of the rifle slammed into his ears, following the bullet as it sped toward the carriage. It struck true, driving into the metallic band around the right rear wheel and punching into the wood.

  The wheel took two more revolutions before the damaged band broke free and the spokes shredded, spitting splinters as the weight of carriage drove down upon it. The wheel collapsed in a flurry of wood, and the carriage, at speed, listed right and then dropped to its side.

  Flailing, the driver sailed out of his seat, landing hard and tumbling on the ground. The carriage tongue broke, and the terrified horses bolted down the road dragging the reins and the remains of the tongue behind them. Twice the carriage tumbled, cracking and popping, flinging shards of wood and wheel in every direction before settling in a sagging heap in the ditch. Dust rose around the wreck.

  Mr. Goodwin stared at Davon like he had never seen him before. “You know, Lord Carver, I do believe I have underestimated you.”

  Davon shoved another bullet into the gun and collected his knives and carving bag from Ceril’s saddlebags. Poor Ceril! How dare they! With firm purpose, he marched toward the ruined carriage, Mr. Goodwin following as fast as he could. The driver stood from where he had fallen in the grass, staggering toward the empty fields. Davon dropped him with a single shot to the back and reloaded.

  Mr. Goodwin cleaned his knife and resheathed it. “Now remember, Mr. Carver, we want Justus Paige alive…if he is still alive.”

  “I know.”

  “Good. Remember that I’ve just as much cause to kill him as you, so when it comes time, we have to take turns.”

  Ceril dead. The fire refused to die. The only thing worse he could think of was Arianne being drowned as a traitor for a crime she did not commit. For that reason only would he restrain himself.

  Pathetic groaning emanated from the bowels of the overturned carriage. Its passenger had survived. With a savage pull, Davon ripped the carriage door off and peered inside. Mr. Paige’s head and face had taken the brunt of the accident, blood running from a gash to his forehead and a gushing from a crooked nose.

  “Leave me alone,” he moaned piteously.

  Davon reached in and grabbed his feet, hauling him out and standing him up. Mr. Goodwin had pried open the barrel still lashed to the back of the carriage, money and coins spilling out onto the road.

  “My head!” Mr. Paige groaned. “My nose!”

  “Rub some dirt in it,” Davon growled, scanning for the horses. They had all fled. Up on the hill, a single rider attracted his notice. He wore some kind of uniform. Davon pulled up his rifle and the man turned and galloped behind the crest of the hill. Baron Longford’s men had caught them.

  “We make for the woods,” Davon said, retrieving the rest of his ammunition from Ceril. “Now.”

  Mr. Paige, a mess of smeared dust and blood, wiped his eyes clear to stare into the dark shadows of the Royal Wood. “We’ll die in there!”

  “Maybe,” Davon said, pointing the rifle at him. “But if we stay here, we’ll be dead for sure. Get moving.”

  “What about the money?” Mr. Goodwin lamented, stuffing a handful into his jacket pocket.

  “Spread it out over the road,” Davon instructed. “Maybe it will keep Longford’s thugs busy for a while.”

  Mr. Paige, one hand pinching his nose and the other rubbing his head, stumbled into the grass between them and the forest. Mr. Goodwin kicked the money about and trundled after them. Dragonflies and plump molly gnats swarmed them, the dust from the wreck clearing as they distanced themselves from the road. Davon kept an eye on the hill. With a pudgy, injured Mr. Paige and an old Mr. Goodwin, their chances of escape were slim at best.

  He chanced one last look at the motionless Ceril, loss fueling his rage. To have such a friend as Ceril end in such a cruel fashion! He thirsted for a fight, half hoping that their pursuers caught them so he could take down as many as possible.

  He bit back his violent feelings, letting sadness trickle in to replace it. Capturing Justus Paige had cost him dearly, but Arianne was worth the price. He would not fail her now.

  Chapter 30

  Uticus, Earl of Longford, peered through the crack in one of the wooden benches from where he waited concealed underneath the seating of the Queen’s Main Hall. The hollow space under the benches reeked of old dust and an oily film that slicked the stone floor. Uticus had no idea that such a space under the benches even existed until Melchor Raines had told him. And how did a Creetisian know about it anyway? Uticus had never given any thought as to what lie under the gallery seating on the few occasions he attended court as an observer.

  The triangle-shaped crack provided a convenient view of the hall, and, more importantly, enough space for the muzzle of a rifle. Thanks to the sympathetic Creetisian’s information, Uticus had the opportunity to gain an honest reputation and save the life of the Queen. It would be a feat that would dwarf the incident at Harrickshire and elevate him into a realm of popularity unrivaled by any of his peers. The name of Longford would shine, perhaps brightly enough to reach the throne.

  Somehow, the helpful Melchor Raines knew that his credit for Harrickshire wasn’t completely deserved, that his title of hero was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. How Melchor knew, he would not divulge, nor would he confirm who else knew it. Had the effeminate Creetisian hidden somewhere in the trees that day when that clerk—well, Baron Davon Carver—had shot the assassins down with such deadly skill?

  No matter. Today Uticus, Earl of Longford, would prove his quality, and he had a Creetisian to thank for this opportunity to earn glory and renown.

  After Melchor’s hints at the Day of Burning Ball, the Creetisian Ambassador’s attaché had cornered him in the Twoberry Gentleman’s Club and talked to him at length and at speed. Uticus could sense his nervousness, and what Mr. Raines had reveale
d shocked him.

  Horace Clout, the ridiculous Creetisian Ambassador whom everyone hated, had orders from his parliament to assassinate the Queen. At first Uticus couldn’t take Mr. Raines seriously. The notion was absurd. The Creetisians were a poor, starving lot with barely a gun to share between them all. A brazen act of assassination would bring the wrath of Bittermarch down upon them.

  But as Melchor continued his reasoning, the picture clarified. The Creetisians were still outraged that nothing had been done, either in apology or compensation, for the butchery at Rontag. The Queen had not accepted responsibility for the act and had rejected all evidences brought before her. As time wore on, the event had faded to the point that few in Bittermarch even thought about it.

  But across the border, Melchor informed him, the matter was far from settled. The Creetisians, apparently, had roiled like boiling oil over the incident, and after Ambassador Clout had sent his last missive to the Creetisian Parliament explaining Queen Filippa’s dismissiveness and inaction, the Parliament had sent one last offer, one last request for remuneration. Failing that, the Ambassador was to kill the Queen or return home in disgrace.

  According to Melchor Raines, the blustery ambassador was not a man to be gainsaid or ignored. The Queen had disrespected him. The Queen had dishonored him. If she did not accept Creetis’s final terms, he would avenge the people of Rontag and his own wounded pride.

  Melchor had done the right thing, Uticus surmised. No one at court would take a mere attaché seriously, and if Melchor went public with his concerns, his life might be endangered. So the Creetisian had confided in him, the Earl of Longford, son of one of the most powerful families in the nation. And Mr. Raines was forthright with his reasons for choosing him. He said that he knew Uticus had a secret, and thus had insurance that he wouldn’t betray him.

  Uticus wiped the sweat from his brow. The space beneath the seats sweltered and stank. When the lords and ladies above him shifted, the benches creaked and moaned in distracting protest. He kept his gaze pegged to the crack. The Ambassador’s name had just been called and he needed to stay focused. According to Mr. Raines, the Ambassador’s plan was to present the offer. If the Queen refused it, he would pretend he needed to retrieve a letter from his coat. Instead, he would pull a pistol.

  Uticus smiled. He would drop the ambassador before he could even take aim. Hero of Harrickshire would be replaced with Hero of Bellshire. His family’s honor would soar. His own reputation would swell. And the fickle heart of Arianne Hightower would at last revolve around his. Best of all, he could leave behind that twinge of shame he felt any time someone called him a hero.

  Horace Clout finally strode into view before the throne. Queen Filippa appeared in ill humor, dressed in gray and staring at the Ambassador so severely that Uticus thought he might wilt. Melchor Raines flitted up behind Horace with his light-footed gait. He spared just a tiny glance toward the crack where Uticus waited, and the Earl swallowed.

  This was it.

  His rifle—his heirloom—was loaded and had been waiting under the bleachers where the resourceful Melchor had stashed it for him. The early morning hour of the conference meant that the Earl had to retire early and without drink the night before. He had hardly slept, but as the Ambassador launched into his tirade against the Queen and against Bellshire in general, all the tired fog in his brain burned away.

  Uticus brought up the gun and placed the muzzle edge quietly on the crack. Few sat in the seats above him, but he couldn’t be too careful. Horace Clout raged and riled like an angry sabercat while the Queen watched him, utterly bored, from her throne. Uticus could understand the Ambassador’s frustration. The massacre at Rontag appeared to be the deepest concern of Horace’s life, while the Queen acted like he was talking about crop rotation.

  Would Horace Clout really resort to killing her? Uticus lowered his gun. A nagging thought in his head buzzed around and landed on his consciousness like a fly on meat at the market. Killing the Queen meant war. Killing the Queen meant the Ambassador would find himself suffering in a dungeon before being drowned. Killing the Queen meant certain defeat and death for his countrymen. Why risk it?

  Horace began shouting, face reddening and finger stabbing at the Queen as if to prod her off her throne or poke her into action. Spittle frothed from his mouth. His entire frame shook, his well-fed and plumped parts shaking in fury.

  Uticus brought the gun back up.

  It was as Melchor had said. The Ambassador was half out of his wits. He felt cheated. He wanted revenge. He ended his long stream of fervent accusations with a final, “What say you?” shot at the Queen like a murderous strike of lightning.

  The Queen barely shifted before saying, “I will not grant your petition for this farce you have perpetrated, Ambassador.”

  Finger on the trigger, Uticus took aim. The distance was less than thirty yards, and the Ambassador was an ample target, but the slime at Uticus’s feet and the cramped vision of the hole complicated the shot. Would Horace Clout really do it?

  The Ambassador stood rooted, the red of his face draining in disappointment, face slackening. Slowly, the Ambassador reached inside his coat, grasped something in his pocket and pulled it. Uticus saw the cylindrical brown shape emerging from the coat. Uticus sighted down the barrel. A shot to the head would do. He squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet hit the Ambassador squarely in the skull just above the temple and he dropped. Screaming and oaths tore through the Main Hall. Uticus pulled in his rifle and made his way toward an opening as high as his waist that led to a cluttered supply closet and then out into the palace proper. The benches above him squeaked and squealed wildly as their occupants stood and fled.

  With the rifle in hand, he passed into a hallway in the servant’s quarters, face flush with his success and a grin creeping up the corners of his mouth. The Queen was saved. The Ambassador’s revenge had fallen as impotently as his threats. The name of Longford would rise in honor. One day, a Longford would sit on the throne of the monarch he had just rescued.

  The shocked sounds of scurrying and low whispers thickened as he neared the doors to the Main Hall. The guards had entered, leaving the outer door unprotected. Uticus strode inside, finding a tableau of people spread around Horace Clout’s body, his head in a pool of blood. The Queen stood facing the doors, face turned down in a scowl.

  “Uticus Longford!” the Queen exclaimed. “What do you mean by coming in here with your rifle?”

  “I shot the assassin,” he said. “I was informed of his plot and stopped him before he could do you harm.”

  Everyone was staring at him now. Something was wrong.

  “Do me harm?” the Queen asked.

  Melchor Raines strode at him, powdered face livid, tears pooling in his eyes. “Murderer!” he screamed, and then, “I demand justice.”

  Uticus kept his face even. Mr. Raines had informed him that he would need to react in this way to belie suspicion that he had played the informant to the Ambassador’s schemes. In a placating gesture, Uticus laid the weapon on the floor and raised his hands into the air.

  “I assure you, Mr. Raines, that I only did what was necessary to protect the Queen. The Ambassador had a pistol and was pulling it to exact revenge upon her Grace.”

  Mr. Raines really did appear upset and kept on his forward track, trembling with his pretended rage. “A pistol? It was a simple courier cylinder carrying an official document of grievance! This is murder! This will be war!”

  Uticus stared around the approaching man, his stomach sinking. There next to the Ambassador’s lifeless hand was the cylinder, a polished wooden container with a black cap on the end. From his vantage point beneath the benches, it had all the appearance of a pistol.

  His mind raced to his conversations with Melchor Raines, to the assertions and information the Creetisian had given him. Creetis coming to war against Bellshire was foolhardy. What would it take to get a nation of starving people with a fraction of Bellshire’s wealth
and firepower to go to war?

  An unprovoked killing of their Ambassador in open court.

  Mr. Raines had tricked him. But Mr. Raines could be interrogated, made to confess. The Lord High Sheriff would break his bones and flog the truth out of his scheming skin. Uticus opened his mouth to explain, to raise the alarm and point out the duplicitous mastermind of the crime.

  But nothing would come out. He looked down at the long silver dagger sliding into his chest. He looked up at the chilling blue eyes of Melchor Raines.

  The assassin stepped forward, put his face close, and whispered, “Well done, Hero of Harrickshire.”

  And Uticus knew no more.

  Queen Filippa sought refuge in her drawing room as evening slowly smothered the room in darkness. She had sent her servants and guards away and hadn’t bothered to order the lighting of any candles or lamps. The darkness suited her, practically blinding her weak eyes, helping her stay inside of her mind. Not twenty-four hours ago she had thought that she had wrested control of the plots plaguing her kingdom from her enemies’ hands, and with one bizarre action Uticus Longford had undone it all.

  Uticus Longford!

  She could scarce believe it. The man, she knew, was no plotter. He hadn’t the genius of leadership like his father, nor the cunning of someone like Horace Clout. But Horace Clout lay in the morgue with a hole in his head. He clearly hadn’t been the mastermind behind Creetis’s plot. It had to be someone in parliament pulling strings. Horace’s agent, Melchor Raines, was a member of The Fist, no doubt pushing Creetis’s plot along, but was Horace’s death a part of that plot or just a random act of misguided heroism?

  The former, she believed. Someone had exercised leverage over Uticus, but what that leverage might be she hadn’t decided. Her best reasoning concluded that someone wanted to force a war with Creetis, a war Creetis would lose. Bellshire’s military outnumbered and outclassed them to the point that any sane Creetisian General would know that an attack would destroy them, regardless of the provocation. Perhaps one of her own nobles had decided to force a war, but to what end? Creetis had nothing Bittermarch wanted.