Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  The owner of the café dodged around Rodrigo, who was floundering amidst broken crockery, and ran into the street, shouting for the constables. People in the street, attracted by the commotion, hurried over to see what was happening, adding to the confusion. The students, having taken cover, were exchanging bets.

  Harrington threw down the useless pistol and reached for his sword. Stephano jumped onto a chair, from the chair to a table, and back to the ground, landing in front of Sir Richard. The naval officers had all drawn their weapons and advanced with the intention of trying to stop the fight.

  “Stay out of this, gentlemen!” Stephano cried. “This bastard murdered a young nobleman in cold blood and he tried to kill me and my friend in the same cowardly manner. He is mine!”

  The naval officers glanced at each other. If Harrington had been a Rosian, they might have stayed to try to prevent bloodshed, but he was a Freyan, and therefore not worth their trouble. The officers thrust their swords back into their sheaths. One of them saluted Stephano, and then they hurriedly left the café, well aware that the Constabulary was probably already on the way. Now that the officers were gone, the clerk made his way out from behind the overturned table.

  “Sir!” the clerk called to Stephano. “For the love of God, don’t kill him! Wait for the constables!”

  Stephano paid no heed, but drove the point of his rapier at Harrington’s throat. Harrington parried, and Stephano managed to nick the man’s chin. Stephano followed with a series of attacks—slash and thrust, moving rapidly, his blade darting and jabbing, trying to force Harrington onto the defensive.

  Harrington was a skilled swordsman, however, and all Stephano managed to do was slice open his shoulder. He pressed Harrington, who had the garden wall behind him. Harrington leaped lightly up onto the wall and ran along it, keeping the tables between him and Stephano.

  Stephano took hold of a table, pitched it over, and lunged at Harrington, who jumped down off the wall and seized hold of one of the serving girls and flung her into Stephano’s arms. Stephano tried to sidestep in order to miss hitting her, but he was not quick enough. He collided with the girl. Harrington used the advantage to drive his blade through the girl’s upper arm and into Stephano’s left shoulder—the same shoulder that was still stiff and sore from Harrington’s bullet. Pain shot through Stephano’s arm and his hand tingled.

  Harrington yanked out his sword and made ready for another strike. The girl collapsed at Stephano’s feet, screaming in pain and terror and further impeding his ability to reach Harrington, who scored a bloody gash down Stephano’s side.

  Stephano grabbed a wine glass from a table and flung the contents into Harrington’s eyes, half-blinding him. While Harrington tried to wipe away the stinging wine, Stephano hurled the glass at him. Harrington lifted his arm to block the blow and managed at the same time to parry Stephano’s vicious stab. Stephano sliced through the cloth and into Harrington’s left forearm. The lace at the man’s wrist was immediately drenched in blood. Harrington feinted to the right, fell back, and seized a knife that had been left in a saddle of beef. He threw the knife at Stephano, hitting him in the thigh.

  Stephano yanked out the knife and backed up. Blood oozed from the wound, and he flung the bloody knife back at Harrington, more out of rage than with the hope of hitting him. Harrington had to dodge the knife, however, and that gave Stephano a moment’s respite. For a moment, both men stood staring, each calculating the next move.

  Blood trickled down Stephano’s leg. His shirt was wet with blood and sticking to his ribs. Harrington was bleeding, too, but only from a few gashes here and there. He smiled. He must think Stephano was nearly finished. He came at him.

  Stephano cast what he hoped looked like a panicked glance behind him, as though judging the distance between himself and the exit. He began to retreat, gasping for air, moving slowly, limping heavily. He kept his rapier raised, defending against Harrington’s quick jabs. Stephano, appearing to weaken, let the tip of his blade waver and drop.

  Harrington had been waiting for this. His blade slid over Stephano’s, aiming for his heart. Stephano hooked his foot under a fallen stool and kicked it, sending it rolling into his foe. The stool struck Harrington in the shins. He stumbled and fought to keep his balance, but his feet were entangled with the legs of the stool and he fell to his knees.

  Stephano attacked while the Freyan was on the ground, hoping to end the fight. Harrington fended off the attack with his sword as he twisted back to his feet with the same feline grace and athleticism that had caused Stephano to place him as the man in the slouch hat. Again, Harrington drove the tip of his blade at Stephano’s heart, turning his wrist so the flat of the blade would slide between his ribs.

  Stephano sidestepped and Harrington’s momentum carried him past Stephano, who jabbed his rapier into Harrington’s back. Harrington gasped in shock. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of his breast.

  “Valazquez, I hope you are watching,” said Stephano.

  He yanked out the blade and James Harrington fell onto an overturned table, bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood dribbling from his mouth.

  Stephano fell back, gasping for breath. What with the heat and excitement and loss of blood, he felt suddenly giddy. As he leaned back against a table and tried to keep from passing out, he was vaguely aware of the clerk who had begged him not to kill Harrington kneeling by the corpse. Stephano and he didn’t pay much attention, though he wanted to tell the fellow not to waste his time. Harrington was most certainly dead. He did think it odd that the pudgy man was frantically searching Harrington’s pockets.

  The clerk yelled something at Stephano and then jumped to his feet and was gone. Stephano stared after him, wondering if he’d heard right. Before he could react, whistles sounded in the street and Rodrigo was beside him.

  “Constables,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Which way?” Stephano asked.

  “Over the garden wall,” said Rodrigo. He looked at Stephano’s bleeding leg. “Can you manage?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Stephano returned, hobbling along beside his friend.

  “This or prison,” said Rodrigo.

  The stone wall proved to be more decorative than functional. They clambered over it, Stephano wincing and grunting and Rodrigo doing what he could to help. They floundered through some ornamental hedges, trampled flower beds, and dodged rose trees in tubs.

  “First you get shot, now stabbed,” Rodrigo grumbled. “If you’re going to keep this up, I will have to start bringing along a wheelbarrow to haul your sorry ass back home.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. My ribs hurt!” Stephano pleaded.

  They floundered their way through the park. People stopped to stare at Stephano, who was covered in blood. Such sights were not unusual in Westfirth, however, and most shrugged and went on about their business.

  Stephano and Rodrigo emerged from the park onto Haymarket Street, which ran parallel to Threadneedle, and was one of the busiest streets in Westfirth. Rodrigo hailed a cab. A hansom cab rolled to a stop. The driver looked down at Stephano, noted the blood on his clothes, and shook his head.

  “He’ll ruin the h’upolstery,” he said indignantly.

  Rodrigo looked into the cab, saw that the “h’upolstery” was faded, cracked, ripped, and disgorging stuffing.

  “A little blood might be good for it,” he told the driver. “I’ll pay double.”

  The driver gave a nod. Rodrigo opened the door and pushed Stephano inside. The driver whipped up the horses before Rodrigo had the door shut, and the cab rattled off through the streets.

  “Sorry about your lavender coat,” said Stephano, eyeing the blood smears on the fine fabric.

  Rodrigo smiled. “Good thing I just ordered a new one.” He began to inspect his friend’s wounds, opening Stephano’s shirt and peering at them.

  “They don’t look very severe t
o me.”

  “What do you know?” Stephano groaned. “My ribs hurt like hell.”

  “Don’t be such a baby. The bleeding in your shoulder has stopped. There’s a big gash down your side, but the blade didn’t penetrate to the bone.” Rodrigo took out a handkerchief, wadded it up. “Here, press that against your leg. I’m getting to rather like bandaging wounds. Perhaps I’ll study to be a surgeon.”

  Stephano did as ordered and held the handkerchief against the gash in his leg. “Speaking of surgeons, did you see that man kneeling over the body?”

  “I didn’t see the body,” Rodrigo answered. “I was trying to reach you, which wasn’t easy, given the fact that I had to wade through a sea of overturned furniture and hysterical women. Why? What did he do?”

  “I thought he was trying to save that bastard,” said Stephano. “But then he began to rifle the man’s pockets and he started swearing. I heard him say, ‘You bloody fool, you just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!’ And then he was gone.”

  “He mentioned the name Henry Wallace?” Rodrigo asked, astonished. “Did you see what the man looked like?”

  “He had on a big hat and a gray cloak,” said Stephano.

  “That describes about half the population of Westfirth,” said Rodrigo. He was silent a moment. They were both silent, thinking, and not much liking their thoughts.

  Rodrigo spoke first. “I guess we know now that Henry Wallace is here in Westfirth, probably with Alcazar.”

  “And I’m guessing Wallace now knows we’re here,” said Stephano. “And that we’re looking for Alcazar.”

  “And that someone else is looking for him, too.”

  Stephano grinned. “Just as long as they’re not riding giant bats.”

  “Amen to that, my friend,” said Rodrigo.

  Dubois had never in his life been so frustrated. He had tried to keep sight of the elderly priest, but Wallace had been too quick for him. When Dubois saw one of the serving girls assisting the priest to leave the scene of the fight, he had attempted to go after them, but by then bullets were flying, tables and chairs and stools were in his way, naval officers interfered, swords flashed. When Dubois next looked, the priest had vanished.

  Dubois’ only hope had then been to keep track of James Harrington; Captain de Guichen when killed Harrington, all Dubois’ plans and efforts were gone with the jab of a rapier.

  Dubois took a chance searching through Harrington’s pockets, with Guichen standing over the body, but Dubois was desperate to find a note or a key or anything that might lead to Sir Henry.

  Harrington had nothing on him. Frustrated, Dubois lost his head and gave voice to his anger.

  “You are an idiot,” he said furiously to Guichen. “You just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!”

  Dubois scuttled out of the café, exiting through the rear door just as the constables were entering the front. In the street, Dubois looked about for the elderly priest, but, of course, Sir Henry was long gone.

  Dubois sighed and reflected that Captain de Guichen, who was also on the trail of Alcazar, was once again his only hope. Dubois regretted his uncharacteristic outburst in the café. He did not often lose his self-possession, but he’d been going for days on little sleep and less food. Dubois rubbed his aching head and plotted his next move.

  There was no need to follow Captain Guichen. The man had sailed from Evreux on a Trundler houseboat with his Trundler friends. They would be docked in the Trundler village.

  Dubois hailed a cab.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Bitter End: the last part of a rope or chain. The term has passed into common usage so that: “One hangs on until the bitter end.”

  —Anonymous

  SIR HENRY WALLACE, IN HIS GUISE AS THE ELDERLY PRIEST, hobbled slowly across Threadneedle Street. He paused a moment in a doorway, leaning on his cane, pretending to rest as he watched the commotion outside the Four Clovers. The constables arrived with much blowing of whistles and a great show of energy. They promptly arrested several people who had nothing to do with the affair, including the two gentlemen who had been attempting to revive the fainting ladies, and the serving girl who had crashed into Rodrigo on the grounds that she had helped the miscreants escape. The crowd lingered in hopes of seeing the body and eventually the constables emerged from the café bearing the corpse on a shutter. Although his face had been decently covered with a handkerchief, Sir Henry recognized James Harrington. He watched impassively as they carted his dead agent away, most likely to a pauper’s grave, since he had little money and no one would claim the body. Certainly not Sir Henry, who pronounced James Harrington’s epithet.

  “Bloody fool!”

  Sir Henry had entered the Four Clovers that day in a good mood. Alcazar’s brother’s ship, the Silver Raven, was due to sail into port tomorrow. He and the journeyman could at last leave Westfirth. Sir Henry had heard from one of his underworld contacts that inquiries were suddenly being made around Westfirth regarding a man named Sir Henry Wallace. A well-dressed, well-spoken, handsome young man and a former mob enforcer were both looking for Wallace.

  Henry had no idea who these people were—agents of the countess, agents of the grand bishop? It didn’t much matter. He cursed Harrington, whose stupidity had set the hounds on his trail. He did not think they would be able to find him, for he had taken excellent precautions, but his good mood had evaporated.

  Henry waited a moment hoping to see if the constables were going to arrest Captain de Guichen. He did not see them hauling the captain away, and he thus gathered gloomily that the captain had escaped.

  Sir Henry resumed his walk. He hobbled down the street until he found a small, neighborhood church and went inside. The church was empty except for two old women in black shawls who were lighting candles for the dead. Both made a reverence to the elderly priest as they passed him on their way down the aisle and out the door. He waited until they were gone, then sat down in a pew near an open window and fished out the folded letter sent to him by Sloan.

  Sloan’s handwriting, usually so neat and precise, was in some places almost illegible.

  My lord, I run the very great risk of writing to you, which I would never do were the matter not of the greatest importance. A dire and most terrible event has occurred. Before I relate the circumstances, I want to assure you that your lady wife and unborn child are both safe. By the grace of God, the family was not in residence. Your lady wife, feeling lonely in your absence, decided on a whim to accept the long-standing invitation of Her Majesty the Queen to return to court for her lying-in. If she had not made this sudden decision, I would not be writing this to you. I would be dead.

  As it was, I traveled with your lady wife to court. Seeing her safely settled in the palace with every comfort, I returned to the manor alone. I arrived before dawn to find a horrific sight. The roof of the manor house was ablaze. The exterior walls were charred and blackened as though they had been struck by cannon fire, which was what I first thought had occurred. And then I beheld the real cause—demonic looking creatures with eyes of orange flame riding on gigantic bats, hurling green fire at the walls. (The words “green fire” had been heavily underscored.)

  My horse was crazed with terror and nearly threw me from the saddle. I managed to regain control and rode into the woods before the creatures saw me. I remained in hiding, watching, until the bats and their riders left with the rising of the sun.

  Once I was certain the attackers were gone, I rode to the manor house to see if there was anyone who could tell me what had transpired. I am not a squeamish man, having seen much in the service of my country. Yet the horrible sight that met my eyes nearly caused me to lose my senses. The people who had not died in the fire had been slaughtered in a most gruesome manner. I found limbs and even heads scattered about the blood-soaked grass. The bats had torn apart the bodies and undoubtedly devoured them.

  We were fortunate, my lord, that there has not been much rain and that the grass was dry.
I helped the flames spread and saw to it that the fire consumed the bodies and wiped out all traces of the true nature of the attack.

  News spread quickly, however. Everyone in the village had seen the flames and smoke and rushed to view the destruction. I rode swiftly to Haever to apprise your lady wife and Her Majesty of what had occurred before they heard any wild rumors. Though I pleaded ignorance as to the attackers, I hinted at the Rosians. Her Majesty is already blaming them, and there is talk of war.

  Finally, I paid a call upon your former associate. You will know of whom I speak and also why I mention her in connection with this tragedy. Her house is still as it was eight years ago—closed, empty, vacant. I made discreet inquiries and learned that a young associate of hers, a depraved young man of about seventeen, who calls himself the Warlock and is wanted in connection with a string of gruesome murders, is known to be in Westfirth and is making inquiries regarding you. I urge you to take precautions, my lord. (That was also underlined.)

  I await your orders.

  Franklin Sloan.

  The letter slipped from Sir Henry’s nerveless fingers. Sweat broke out on his neck and chest. He stared, unseeing, into the chancel. His first thoughts were of his wife and child and he found himself trembling at the thought of how narrowly they had escaped a horrible death. Sir Henry muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks and then, chastising himself for his weakness, pulled himself together and began to think about the incident coldly and rationally. What did this portend? Who had attacked him? He discounted Sloan’s incredible tale of demons. The man had ridden all night. He’d been short on sleep. Sloan’s final paragraph at the end of the letter hinted at an answer—a very disturbing answer.