Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  CHAPTER 11

  THE HOODED MAN

  The hooded man walked away again. Arista cowered deeper into the shadows under the tavern steps. She wanted to disappear, to become invisible. Her robe had turned a dingy brown, blending with the dirty wood. Drawing up the hood, she waited. It was him—the same man Lynnette had described. He was looking for her. She heard the sound of his boots on the cobblestone. They slowed, hesitated, and then grew louder.

  He’s coming back again!

  The tall, dark figure appeared at the end of the alley for the third time. He paused. She held her breath. The streetlamps revealed a frightening figure dressed in a black hooded cloak and a thick scarf hiding his face. He wore an unseen sword— she could hear the telltale clap.

  He took a tentative step toward her hiding place, then another, and then paused. The light’s glare exposed white puffs issuing from his scarf. His head turned from side to side. He stood for several seconds, then pivoted so sharply his boot heel dug a tiny depression in the gravel, and walked away. After several tense minutes, Arista carefully crept out.

  He was gone.

  The first light of dawn rose in the east. If only she could make it back to the palace. At least there she would be safe from the assassin and away from the inevitable questions: “Who is she? How did she do it? Is she a witch?”

  She had left Brisbane Alley before anyone thought to ask, but what about after? She had drawn too much attention, and—although she doubted anyone would connect the dots—the unabashed use of magic would cause a stir.

  She removed the robe, carefully tucked it under the tavern steps, and set off toward the palace. The guards ignored her as usual, and she went about her tasks without incident. Throughout the day she had the good fortune to work relatively unnoticed, but by midday, news of the events of the night before had reached the palace. Everyone buzzed about the disturbance on Coswall Avenue. A boy had been brought back to life. By evening, rumors named the Witch of Melengar as the culprit. Luckily, no one suspected the scrub girl Ella of any more wrongdoing than failing to return the borrowed tablecloth.

  Arista was exhausted and not merely from losing a night’s sleep while avoiding the assassin. Saving Wery had drained her. After the day’s work was over, she returned to the alley and retrieved the wizard’s robe. She did not dare put it on, for fear someone might recognize it. Rolling it up and clutching it to her chest, she made her way to the edge of the broad avenue, unable to decide what to do next. Staying would be sheer stupidity. Looking down the broad length of Grand Avenue, she could see the front gates of the city. It felt like a lifetime since she had been home, and it would be so good to see a familiar face, to hear her brother’s voice—to rest.

  She knew she should leave. She should go that very minute, but she was so tired. The idea of setting out into the cold dark, alone and hungry, was too much to bear. She desperately needed a safe place to sleep, a hot meal, and a friendly face—which meant just one thing: the Barkers. Besides, she could not leave without retrieving her pearl-handled hairbrush, the last remaining keepsake from her father.

  Nothing had changed at the end of Brisbane Alley. The length was still dotted with small campfires and littered with bulky shadows of makeshift tents, carts, wagons, and barrels. People moved about in the growing dark. Some glanced at her as she passed, but no one spoke or approached her. She found the Barkers’ wagon and, as always, a great tarp stretched out from it like a porch awning. One of the boys spotted her, and a moment later Lynnette rushed out. Without a word, she threw her arms around Arista and squeezed tightly.

  “Come, have something to eat,” she said, wiping her cheeks and leading Arista by the hand. Lynnette laid a pot on the fire. “I saved some just in case. I had to hide it, of course, or the vultures would have gobbled it all down. I wasn’t sure you’d be back …”

  The rest of the Barkers gathered around the fire. Finis and Hingus sat on the far side. Brice Barker, dressed in his usual white shirt and gray trousers, sat on an upturned crate, whittling a bit of wood. No one spoke. Arista took a seat on a wooden box, feeling awkward.

  Is that apprehension in their eyes, or outright fear?

  “Ella?” Lynnette finally asked in a small tentative voice. “Who are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she said after a long pause. She expected them to complain or press further. Instead, they all nodded silently, as if they had expected her answer, just as she had expected their question.

  “I don’t care who you are. You’re always welcome at this fire,” Brice said. He kept his eyes on the flames, but his words betrayed an emotion she had not expected. Brice, who made his living shouting in the streets all day, hardly ever spoke.

  Lynnette dished out the bit of stew she had warmed up. “I wish there was more. If I had only known you’d be back.”

  “How is Wery?” Arista asked.

  “He slept all night but was up most of the day running around, causing a nuisance as usual. Everyone who’s seen him is saying the same thing—it was a miracle.”

  “Everyone?” Arista asked with concern.

  “Folks been stopping by all day to see him and asking about you. Many said they had sick children or loved ones who are dying. One got so angry he knocked down the canvas and nearly upset the wagon before Finis brought Brice home to clear him out.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be! Please—no—don’t ever be sorry,” Lynnette pleaded. She paused, her eyes tearing again. “You won’t be able to stay with us anymore, will you?”

  Arista shook her head.

  “The hooded man?”

  “And others.”

  “I wish I could help,” Lynnette said.

  Arista leaned over and hugged her. “You have … more than you’ll ever know. If I could just get a good night’s sleep, then I—”

  “Of course you can. Sleep in the wagon. It’s the least we can do.”

  Arista was too exhausted to argue. She climbed up and, in the privacy of the cart, put the robe on to fight away the night’s cold. She crawled across a lumpy bedding of coarse cloth that smelled of potatoes and onions, and laid her head down at last. It felt so good to close her eyes and let her muscles and mind go. She could hear them whispering outside, trying not to disturb her.

  “She’s a servant of Maribor,” one of the boys said. She could not tell which. “That’s why she can’t say. The gods never let them say.”

  “Or she could be Kile—a god disguised and doing good deeds,” the other added. “I heard he gets feathers from Muriel’s cloak for each one he does.”

  “Hush! She’ll hear you,” Lynnette scolded. “Go clean that pot.”

  Arista fell asleep to their whispers and woke to loud voices.

  “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I don’t know anything about a witch.” It was Brice’s voice, and he sounded frightened.

  Arista peered out from the wagon. An imperial soldier stood holding a torch, his way blocked by Brice. Behind him, farther up the alley, other soldiers pounded on the door to the tannery and forced their way into the other tents.

  “Sergeant,” the man in front of Brice called, “over here!”

  Three soldiers walked fast, their armor jangling, hard boots hammering the cobblestone.

  “Tear down this hovel and search it,” the sergeant ordered. “Continue to do the same for all these places. They’re an eyesore and should be removed anyway.”

  “Leave them alone,” Arista said, stepping out of the wagon. “They haven’t done anything.”

  “Ella!” Brice snapped. “Stay out of this.”

  The sergeant moved briskly toward Arista, but Brice stepped in the way.

  “Leave my daughter alone,” he threatened.

  “Brice, no,” Arista whispered.

  “I’m only here for the witch,” the soldier told them. “But if you insist, I’ll be happy to torch every tent in this alley.”

  “She’s no witch!”
Lynnette cried, clutching Wery to her side. “She saved my baby. She’s a servant of Maribor!”

  The sergeant studied Arista briefly, sucking on his front teeth.

  “Bind her!” he ordered.

  Two of his men stepped forward with a length of rope and grabbed hold of Arista by her arms. They immediately cried out in pain, let go, and stumbled backward. Esrahaddon’s robe glowed a deep pulsating red. The guards glared at her in fear, shaking their injured hands.

  Seeing her chance, Arista closed her eyes and began to concentrate. She focused on blocking out the sounds of the street and on—

  Pain exploded across her face.

  She fell backward to the ground, where she lay dazed. Her eyesight darkened at the edges. A ringing wailed in her ears.

  “We’ll have none of that!” the sergeant declared.

  She looked up through watery eyes, seeing him standing over her, rubbing his knuckles. He drew his sword and pointed it at Brice.

  “I know better than to let you cast your spells, witch. Don’t make another sound, and remove that robe. Do it now! I’ll strip you naked if needed. Make no sudden moves or sounds, or I’ll cleave off this man’s head here and now.”

  Lynnette was somewhere to her right, and Arista heard her gasp in horror.

  “The robe. Take it off!”

  Arista wiggled out of the robe, leaving herself clothed only in Lynnette’s thin kirtle. The sergeant sucked on his teeth again and stepped closer. “Are my men going to have any more trouble with you?” He lifted the point of his sword toward Brice once again.

  Arista shook her head.

  “Good. Bind her tightly. Wrap her wrists and fingers and find something to gag her with.” The guards approached again and jerked her arms so roughly behind her back that she cried out.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” Lynnette begged. “She didn’t do anything wrong!”

  They tied her wrists, wrapping the rope around her fingers, pulling until the skin pinched painfully. As they did, the sergeant ordered Lynnette to pick up the robe and hand it to him. One of the soldiers grabbed Arista by the hair, dragging her to her feet. Another took hold of one of her sleeves and ripped it off.

  “Open yer mouth,” he ordered, pulling Arista’s head back. When she hesitated, the soldier slapped her across the face. Again she staggered, and might have fallen if not for the other guard, still holding her hair. The slap was not nearly as painful as the blow the sergeant had given, but it made her eyes water again. “Now open!”

  He stuffed the material into her mouth, jamming it in so far Arista thought she would choke. He tied it in place by wrapping more rope around her head and wedging it between her lips. When they tied one final length around her neck, Arista feared they might hang her right there.

  “Now, that should keep us safe,” declared the sergeant. “We’ll cut those hands off when we get to the palace, and after you’ve answered questions, I expect we’ll take that tongue as well.”

  A crowd gathered as they dragged her away, and Arista could hear Lynnette weeping. As they reached Coswall, the patrons of the Bailey turned out to watch. The men stood on the porch, holding mugs. She heard the word witch muttered more than once as she passed by.

  By the time they reached the square, she was out of breath and choking on the gag. When she lagged behind, the guard holding the leash jerked hard and she fell. Her left knee struck the cobblestone of Bingham Square and she screamed, but the sound came out as a muffled grunt. Twisting, she landed on her shoulder to avoid hitting her face. Lying on her side, Arista cried in agony from the pain shooting up her leg.

  “Up!” the soldier ordered. The rope tightened on her throat, the rough cord cutting her skin. The guard growled, “Get up, you lazy ass!” He pulled harder, dragging her a few inches across the stones. The rope constricted. She heard the pounding of blood in her ears. “Up, damn you!”

  She felt the rope cut into her neck. She could barely breathe. The pounding in her ears hammered like drums, pressure building.

  “Bruce?” one of the guards called. “Get her up!”

  “I’m trying!”

  There was another tug and Arista managed to sit up, but she was light-headed now. The street tilted and wobbled. As darkness grew at the edges of her vision, it was becoming difficult to see. She tried to tell them she was choking. All that came out was a pitiful moan.

  She struggled to reach her knees, but the dizziness worsened. The ground shifted and dipped. She fell, hitting her shoulder again, and rolled to her back. She looked up at the soldier holding the leash and pleaded with her eyes, but all she saw in reply was anger and disgust.

  “Get up or—” He stopped. The soldier looked abruptly to his right. He appeared puzzled. He let go of the rope and took a step backward.

  The cord loosened, the pounding eased, and she could breathe again. She lay in the street, her eyes closed, happy to be alive. The clang of metal and the scuffle of feet caught her attention. Arista looked up to see the would-be strangler collapse to the street beside her.

  Standing an arm’s length away, the hooded man loomed with a blood-coated sword. From his belt he drew a dagger and threw it. Somewhere behind her there was a grunt and then a sound like a sack of flour hitting the ground.

  The hooded man bolted past her. She heard a cry of pain. Metal struck metal, then another grunt, this one followed by a gurgling voice speaking garbled words. Another clash, another cry. She twisted around, rolling to her knees. She found him again. He stood in the center of Bingham Square, holding his sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Three bodies lay on the ground. Two soldiers remained.

  “Who are you?” the sergeant shouted at him. “We are imperial soldiers acting on official orders.”

  The hooded man said nothing. He rushed forward, swinging his blade. He dodged to the right, and catching the sergeant’s sword high, he stabbed the man in the neck with his dagger. As he did, the remaining soldier swung at him. The hooded man cried out, then whirled in rage. He charged the last soldier, striking at him, his overwhelming fury driving the guard back.

  The soldier turned and ran. The hooded man gave chase. The guard nearly made it to the end of the street before he was cleaved in the back. Once the soldier collapsed, the man continued attacking his screaming victim, stabbing him until he fell silent.

  Arista sat helpless, bound in the middle of the square as the hooded man turned. With his sword and cloak dripping blood, he came for her. He pulled Arista to her feet and into a narrow alley.

  He was breathing hard, sucking wetly through the scarf. No longer having the strength, physical or mental, Arista did not resist. The world was spinning and the night slipped into the unreal. She did not know what was happening or why, and she gave up trying to understand.

  He dragged her into a stable and pushed her against the rough-hewn wall. A pair of horses shifted fearfully, spooked by the smell of blood. He held her tightly and brought his knife to her throat. Arista closed her eyes and held her breath. She felt the cold steel press against her skin as he drew it, cutting the cord away. He spun her around, cut her wrists loose, and then the cord holding the gag fell free.

  “Follow me, quickly,” he whispered, pulling her along by the hand. Confused, she staggered after him. Something was familiar in that voice.

  He led her through a dizzying array of alleys, around dark buildings, and over wooden fences. Soon she had no idea where they were. He paused in a darkened corner, holding a finger to his scarf-covered lips. They waited briefly, then moved on. The wind picked up, carrying an odor of fish, and Arista heard the sound of surf. Ahead she could see the naked masts of ships bobbing at anchor along the wharf. When he reached a particularly dilapidated building, he led her up a back stair into a small room and closed the door behind them.

  She stood rigid near the door, watching him as he started a fire in an iron stove. Seeing his hands, his arms, and the tilt of his head—something was so familiar. With the fire stoked, he turned a
nd took a step toward her. Arista shrank until her back was against the door. He hesitated and then nodded. She recognized something in his eyes.

  Reaching up, he drew back his hood and unwrapped the scarf. The face before her was painful to look at. Deformed and horribly scarred, it appeared to have melted into a patchwork of red blotches. One ear was missing, along with his eyebrows and much of his hair. His mouth lacked the pale pink of lips. His appearance was both horrid and so welcome she could find no words to express herself. She broke into tears of joy and threw her arms around him, hugging as tightly as her strength allowed.

  “I hope this will teach you not to run off without me, Your Highness,” Hilfred told her.

  She continued to cry and squeeze, her head buried in his chest. Slowly his arms crept up, returning her embrace. She looked up and he brushed strands of tear-soaked hair from her face. In more than a decade as her protector, he had never touched her so intimately. As if realizing this, Hilfred straightened up and gently escorted her to a chair before reaching for his scarf.

  “You’re not going back out?” she asked fearfully.

  “No,” he replied, his voice dropped a tone. “The city will be filled with guards. It won’t be safe for either of us to venture in public for some time. We’ll be all right here. There are no occupied buildings around, and I rented this flat from a blind man.”

  “Then why are you covering up?”

  He paused a moment, looking at the scarf. “The sight of my face—it makes people … uncomfortable, and it’s important that you feel safe and at ease. That’s my job, remember?”

  “And you do it very well, but your face doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t find me … unpleasant to look at?”

  Arista smiled warmly. “Hilfred, your face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  The flat Hilfred stayed in was very small, just a single room and a closet. The floor and walls were rough pine planks weathered gray and scuffed smooth from wear. There were a rickety table, three chairs, and a ship’s hammock. The single window was hazy from the buildup of ocean salt, admitting only a muted gray light. Hilfred refused to burn a single candle after dark, for fear of attracting attention. The small stove kept the drafty shack tolerably warm at night, but before dawn it was extinguished to avoid the chance of someone seeing the smoke.