The guards exchanged glances. Their hands still hovered near their hilts, but they did not draw their weapons. “What do you mean, ‘talk to the baron?’ ”
“That’s where I was going!” Larson shouted. “You’re goddamned lucky I have to see the baron. Otherwise I’d have left you all bleeding in the alley!”
From behind the leader, Silme made a sudden gesture of disapproval.
One of the heavier guards shifted restlessly, his eyes dark with malice. The leaner guard spoke. “What were you going to tell the baron?”
Ignoring Silme’s plea for tolerance, Larson snorted. “None of your goddamned business. I’m not going to tell something this important to some jerk who’s supposed to be upholding the law but is breaking it instead.”
Silme chimed in. “It’s urgent. It involves the criminals who are causing problems in the streets.”
After the guards’ attack on Silme, Larson doubted they would care about crime. But their hands slid away from their sheaths. The sentries exchanged interested, if skeptical, glances. Only then, did it dawn on Larson that, regardless of their own brutality, it still fell to the guards to police the streets. Until Harriman inspired the underground, violence was the sole reign of the guard force, and they sublimated their crueler tendencies by intimidating peasants or battering prisoners. As the city turned fiercer, so did the guards. If we can get the crime element under control, the guards will follow naturally. And it’s at least as much in their interest as our own to make the streets safe.
“Fine.” The leader used his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding on his face, his lips twitching into an angry frown. “You want to talk to the baron about that, we’ll escort you personally. We’ll just make sure nothing happens to you on the way.” He smiled wickedly. “Afterward ...” He glared, meeting Larson’s gaze with fiery, green eyes. “... you and I are going to have a talk. What just happened here is between us. We’ll settle it later.”
Larson returned the stare without flinching, and the two stood, unmoving, neither willing to glance away first. “Sounds just fine to me.”
In the northern quarter of the city of Cullinsberg, the baron’s keep nestled between walls twice the height of a tall man. Standing at the gate with Silme, Larson studied the castle’s seven stories of blocked granite, its corner spires rising to the heavens like dragons’ tails. In the courtyard, peasants sat in huddled groups while uniformed guards threaded watches between them. A moat slicked with algae reflected the morning light, murky green beneath the lowered drawbridge that jutted from the dark depths of the keep. Two sentries stood before the walkway and rebuffed citizens with words or shoves of their spear shafts. A matching pair of guardsmen met Larson, Silme, and their three guard escort at the open gate.
The larger of the sentries regarded Larson and Silme from beneath a curled mat of blond hair. “Who are you? Do you have an appointment?” He used a condescending tone that denied the possibility. “Does the baron know you?”
Still seething from his confrontation in the alley, Larson found the guard’s brusque manner and formality a challenge. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, one of the robust escorts piped in from behind him.
“It’s all right. They’re with us.”
The sentry regarded the leader of the trio curiously. “Haimfrid?”
The frizzle-haired guard nodded, a single, curt gesture emphasized by the thud of his spear butt against the ground. “They need to talk to Baron Dietrich. We’ll take them personally.”
The sentries exchanged glances. Apparently, this went against accepted procedure, but Haimfrid must have outranked them because they stepped aside to let Silme, Larson, and their accompanying guardsmen through the gate.
Haimfrid led his charges past waiting clusters of townsfolk, across the drawbridge over the moat, and into the mouth of the keep. Braziers lit the hallway in evenly-spaced hemispheres. Though scrubbed clean, the stone walls supported no finery, and Larson suspected that the baron displayed his wealth and artifacts only in places where visiting peasants could not enjoy or steal them. A short distance down the corridor, they came upon an oak door and a hard, wooden bench across from it. “Sit,” Haimfrid growled.
The two heavyset guards trotted off to make arrangements.
Larson and Silme sat. Haimfrid stood, stiff as his spear, directly before them. Only his eyes moved, as he studied Silme, taunting Larson with a hungry leer of anticipation.
Silme leaned against her dragonstaff with calm detachment, pretending to take no notice of Haimfrid’s stare. Larson chewed at his lip, trying to rein his temper with little success. He latched his fingers onto the edges of the bench, rocking to waste pent-up energy, reminding himself repeatedly that he could never hope to win a battle against guards while in the baron’s keep, Take care of business first. Then I’ll rip off the bastard’s head.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Stubbornly refusing to be intimidated, Haimfrid remained standing and gawking long after the position must have grown uncomfortable. Silme dropped into a shallow catnap, and Larson’s mood grew progressively uglier. Finally, he leaped to his feet to protest.
At that precise moment, the door edged open, and one of the heavyset guardsmen poked his head through the crack. “Haimfrid?”
“Come with me.” Haimfrid beckoned as if no time had elapsed. Walking with the limp of cramped muscles, he led Larson and Silme through the door and into the baron’s audience chamber.
A frayed carpet of multicolored squares formed a pathway to the baron’s dais. Dressed in a gaudy costume of leather and silk, a finely-etched and jeweled medallion around his throat, the baron perched in a chair carved into the shape of a lion. The maned head topped its back, its mouth opened. Though intended to appear formidable, in Larson’s current mood, it looked more as if the creature might swallow the baron’s head. The fourteen guards positioned around the courtroom wore red-trimmed black uniforms, but the baron sported gold and silver, the colors of Aga’arin’s priests.
As Larson traversed the carpet at Haimfrid’s side, it became instantly apparent that the room contained no other exits. During his interminable wait on the bench no one had left by the main doors. The baron saw no one before us. He made us wait for no good reason. The realization deepened Larson’s rage. I won’t be bullied.
As if to prove him wrong, Haimfrid slammed the base of his spear into Larson’s shin. “That’s far enough. Now kneel and kiss the floor.”
Pain flared through Larson’s ankle. He hissed in fury. “Fuck you. I’m not putting my lips on any floor.”
Haimfrid raised his voice so the others in the room could hear. “Insolent fool, you’re in the presence of the most high, noble baron of Cullinsberg. What do you mean you won’t bow?”
Born and raised in the king’s city of Forste-Mar, Silme curtsied with practiced elegance.
Bow? Larson fought the urge to leap bodily upon Haimfrid. “You bastard,” he whispered. More accustomed to saluting as a show of respect, he executed a rigid, clumsy bow.
Haimfrid sneered. “Now do it right, or I’ll take this spear to you.” He brandished the weapon in warning.
As the pain in his ankle subsided, Larson dismissed Haimfrid’s threat softly, as if he were nothing more than a bothersome fly at a picnic. “You go back in the corner and play with your stick like a nice, little boy and you won’t get hurt.”
“Hold.” The baron’s voice thundered through the room. “There’s time enough for violence if it’s necessary. Right now, Haimfrid, you stand off.”
Haimfrid couched his spear with obvious reluctance.
Baron Dietrich fondled a paw adorning his handrest. “You come into my presence. You show an appalling lack of proper regard. This had better be important.”
In an obvious attempt to restore order, Silme broke in before Larson could gather breath. “You’ll have to excuse him, lord. He comes from another realm where this sort of circumstance is unusual. He’s a bit out of sorts, and the information we
bring is of such great importance I didn’t have time to brief him on all the appropriate courtesy and decorum someone of your mighty stature deserves.”
“Fine. Fine.” The baron waved a hand with impatience. “Proceed. If your news is truly important enough to bring to my attention, I can forgive a lapse of respect this once.”
Silme curtsied again. “As I’m sure you know, the incidence of crime in Cullinsberg has recently increased and its nature has become more violent.”
Forcing himself to remain collected, Larson avoided Haimfrid’s stare.
“Yes, that’s so,” said the baron. “But we have taken what we feel to be the appropriate measures and have the situation under control.”
Larson opened his mouth to disagree, but Silme tapped his other shin with her staff and seized his moment of surprise to continue. “This is in no way intended to be disrespectful, lord. The measures taken may eventually bring crime under control. As yet, they haven’t been successful. The streets remain unsafe. But we have information regarding a leader of the organized underground who is causing the problems. It might be prudent for you to use the facilities at your disposal to remove this leader, thereby weakening the underground.”
Impressed by Silme’s eloquence, Larson awaited the baron’s reply with the same quiet eagerness as his soldiers.
“Fine,” the baron said agreeably. “I don’t believe we still have an organized underground, just a bunch of thugs. But it might prove interesting to question whoever you name. Maybe he does know some useful information. We’ve already made a sweep of the leaders, but if we missed one, tell us. I’ll be grateful, and you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”
This is almost too easy. Larson’s spirits lifted, and even Haimfrid’s persistent glare no longer disturbed him.
“The leader’s name is Harriman,” Silme said.
The baron leaned forward, hands clenched on the lion’s paws. “Who? Repeat that.”
Silme obliged. “The leader’s name is Harriman.”
“Do you have a description of this Harriman?”
Silme repeated the features Taziar had highlighted the previous night. “Over thirty. Average height but well-muscled. Curly blond hair and beard. Dark, shrewd eyes.”
The baron slumped back into his chair. “Guards, show them out. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
Surprised by the sudden turn of events, Larson shouted. “Wait! What’s going on here? What the hell are you doing?” As Haimfrid closed in, Larson hollered. “Idiot!” He intended the insult for the guard, but the baron took offense.
“Idiot?” Dietrich screeched in rage, and every soldier tensed. “Who are you calling idiot, you insignificant peon? Harriman happens to be one of my men, a nobleman in his own right, and not a criminal. You come to me. You make all kinds of demands. You burst into my presence without the proper respect or so much as a vague semblance of courtesy. Then you have the nerve to call me an idiot? Get out of my sight right now or you’ll be hanging tomorrow with the rest of the vermin.” He pounded a fist on the armrest. “Men, escort them out!”
Larson went rigid. Baron’s court or not, if Haimfrid touches me or Silme, I’ll kill him.
But Haimfrid seemed content to let the court guards do their jobs. He stepped aside as the others pressed in. One reached for Larson’s arm. Larson dodged aside, unwilling to lose his freedom of movement. Spears rattled behind him. Concerned for Silme, Larson edged his hand toward the hilt of Gaelinar’s katana. Then, realization froze him mid-movement. If I fight, Silme may get killed. At best, they’d take her prisoner. Images boiled up within him, of guards like Haimfrid defiling Silme with filthy hands, raping her, beating her, perhaps killing her before the birth of the child she endured their torture to save. She has that one spell stored. But a transport escape only works on herself, and I don’t think she’d leave me. Hoping to avoid violence, he kept his hands high in a gesture of surrender and moved toward the door. Silme followed.
Haimfrid, his two companions, and a handful of court guards accompanied Larson and Silme from the audience room and down the hallway to the outer door. Then, apparently convinced the pair did not intend to cause any more trouble, one of the guards addressed them stiffly. “Thank you for your interest in the affairs of the barony. We greatly appreciate all assistance that can be given by dedicated citizens such as yourself.” The guard paused in his rehearsed monologue, as if noticing Larson’s foreign features for the first time. “I’m sure the baron has this under consideration and is currently looking into the matter. Thank you.”
“Wait, no.” Larson spun to the guards, not daring to believe Taziar had predicted the situation so closely based only on personal prejudice and mistrust. It doesn’t make any sense. An official bribed by a quiet crime lord is one thing. But why would the baron publicly scream about fighting crime while just as vocally supporting the criminals’ violent leader? Larson found himself facing a sneering Haimfrid and four lowering spears.
Silme gave him a warning kick.
“But ...” Larson started. Then, recognizing the futility of protestation, he finished lamely. “Fine. Okay, fine. Let’s go.” Whirling back toward the courtyard, he seized Silme’s arm. “This is insane.”
“We can take it from here,” Haimfrid said.
Larson heard the rustle of uniforms as the court guards returned to their posts in the baron’s audience chamber, leaving Haimfrid and his two companions to escort them from the yard.
In the wake of Larson’s failure with the baron, Haimfrid’s threats in the alleyway seemed to lose all significance. Maybe we can talk this damned thing out, Larson thought, seeing the need to parley, but in no mood to try. He tromped over the drawbridge, footsteps echoing along the moat and shoved through the milling crowds. The same sentries stood aside to let Larson, Silme, and their accompanying guards through the gates in the enclosing walls.
Once in the main street, Larson considered the best arguments to defuse a situation that had grown beyond all proportion.
But Haimfrid prodded Larson’s spine with his spear. “All right, hero ...”
The touch rekindled Larson’s rage, but Haimfrid’s words sent him over the edge. Kensei Gaelinar had always referred to Larson as “hero,” and, from Haimfrid, the taunt mocked not only Larson, but the only man who had ever fully gained his respect.
Oblivious to the depth of his harassment, Haimfrid continued, “... you delivered your message. Let’s the five of us go for a little walk. We’ll take care of you first and save her for dessert.”
Larson’s control snapped. His vision washed red. “Fine,” he screamed. “You want to go someplace. Let’s go, right now!” He took two striding steps forward, no destination in mind.
Silme gripped his forearm. “Calm down, Allerum.” Her touched radiated concern as well as warning.“ She addressed Haimfrid. ”You’re making a big mistake.“
One of the two robust guards behind Silme whispered, “Nice, very pretty. This won’t be so bad.”
Larson shook free of Silme’s hand. “They started it. By damn, I’m going to finish it.”
Haimfrid laughed. “Go ahead, talk loud. We’ll see how loud you scream.” He chuckled again. “We’ll see how loud she screams.” He poked Larson a few more times to hurry him away from the baron’s keep. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”
Larson whirled to face Haimfrid, glaring, his hands tensed on his hips. The other two guards were giving Silme as much space, though they held no spears.
Haimfrid back-stepped, spear readied.
Shaking his head with contempt, Larson turned to face forward again. He waited only until Haimfrid stepped in and jabbed him one more time. The instant the point touched him, Larson spun. He batted the spear aside with his left hand, pivoted along the shaft, and smashed his right fist into Haimfrid’s temple. Haimfrid crumpled without a cry. His spear clattered to the cobbles.
It was a sucker punch, but, accustomed to street fighting, Larson did not trouble himself with ethics. The
speed of his strike pooled the blood into his hand until it ached. Ignoring the pain, he sprang between Silme and Haimfrid’s startled companions. One reached for his sword hilt, but too slowly. The sword had come only halfway free when Larson snapped a kick that struck the man’s fingers. The sword fell back into its sheath.
Larson saw his own anger mirrored on his opponent’s face. Again, the fat guard reached for his sword. Quick as thought, Larson knocked the hand away and slapped the ruddy cheeks. The other guard leaped for Silme. Larson hesitated, and his own opponent lunged for his throat. Larson responded naturally. He drove his hands between the guard’s arms, back-stepping to draw the guard forward. Seizing a handful of greasy, sand-colored hair, Larson used the guard’s momentum to drive his knee into the jowly face. Cartilage crumbled. Blood trickled, warm on Larson’s skin, and the man crumpled, moaning, to the cobbles.
Larson looked over in time to see Silme tear the last guard’s grip from her sleeve and bar his arm behind him. Larson charged, shoving between them. Before he could raise a fist, Silme hissed a warning from between gritted teeth. “Allerum, hold. Look up. Please, look up now.”
Shoving the guard aside, Larson followed the direction of Silme’s gaze. A half dozen crossbowmen perched on the curtain wall of the baron’s keep, every bow drawn and aimed at Larson.
Silme made a wordless sound of outrage. The sapphire in her staff flared, staining the masonry inky blue. A column of flame sprang to life at the crossbowmen’s feet. Flickers of blue and white danced like ghosts through the fire.
Shouts of surprise wafted from the wall top. The cross-bowmen scattered. Three loosed bolts that went wild, their metal tips clicking on the cobbles.
Silme grasped Larson’s arm. “Run!” She whirled, dragging Larson through the startled crowd and down the stand-lined street.
Muddled by a wash of rising and dispersing emotions, Larson followed without comprehension. Only after they had ducked beyond sight and sound of the baron’s keep did he dare to question. “That spell you used. It didn’t tap you?”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 14