Well of the Damned

by K. C. May

  Another strike of the knife wasn’t needed. He staggered a moment, and she stepped towards him and yanked the sword from his hand as he slumped with a satisfying thud to the wooden floor.

  “Calinor!” a woman called out. She ran, jingling, to the doorway and stopped just outside the room. “Cirang, is that you?”

  “Vandra? How the hell are you still alive?” Cirang asked, pressing herself flat once more against the wall. Her chest heaved from the exertion, and the pain in her side seemed distant and insignificant. She moved the sword to her right hand, dagger to her left.

  “I’m tougher than you think. Set your weapons down and walk out slowly.”

  Cirang judged the distance by the volume of her voice and breathing. Vandra was close, maybe within reach if she simply swiveled into the open doorway. Calinor’s big body on the floor in the doorway, however, left little room for her to maneuver.

  “Surrender to me, and I’ll tell King Gavin you were cooperative.”

  Cirang gave a derisive snort. “That’s not going to happen. If you run now, get on your little mule and ride like your life depends on it, I won’t stop you. Otherwise, we’re going to fight to the death, and I’ve already died twice. I’m not afraid of it anymore.” Of course, she preferred not to die again so soon, but saying so wouldn’t have sounded as good.

  She looked back down at Calinor, judging how the placement of her feet would affect her balance. Maybe she should step on his back. Her footing wouldn’t be as sure, but she would have surprise on her side. He wore a thick leather cuirass, which might provide more stability under her bare feet than if he’d been wearing a mail shirt or no armor at all.

  “You should be, because you won’t live to see the sun rise,” Vandra said.

  Cirang spun around the corner, stepping up onto Calinor with her left foot, and thrust with the sword. Vandra was quick. She blocked it and turned it away. Cirang didn’t give her the luxury of a counterattack. She punched hard with the blade of the dagger, aiming for the throat above the neck line of Vandra’s mail shirt. Vandra dodged it. The thrust sliced through air.

  Vandra stumbled over Calinor’s legs when she tried to step back. Cirang pressed forward, bringing her sword around again. Now on solid floor, she was in the open, facing her opponent in the dark great room. Her night vision wasn’t the best, but it couldn’t be any worse than Vandra’s.

  “You’re naked,” Vandra said.

  “Does that get you hot?”

  Vandra answered with a straight thrust of her sword. Cirang barely avoided it by leaning right and sweeping its tip left with the dagger. Now, with her arm extended, she was vulnerable. Cirang stepped with her left foot, turning her evasive lean into a spin move, and came down with the sword. Vandra should have been sliced open across the back, but Calinor’s dull sword glanced off the mail shirt, giving Vandra time to twist away. Already, Cirang was breathless. She’d suffered a loss of strength in gaol, and her injuries taxed both her ability to manage pain and her endurance. Surrendering wasn’t an option, especially not when she had Vandra’s honor on her side.

  Cirang stepped back, clutching her forearm against her side and feeling the wetness there. “I... can’t fight you,” she said. “My injuries are... grave, and I’m... weak. I surrender. Please. Show mercy.” She hunched over and hissed in pain.

  “Toss your weapons to the ground, and I’ll give you a quick death,” Vandra said.

  “No, King Gavin promised me... five years in gaol... before my execution. You must let him... decide whether to... uphold his... promise.”

  Vandra’s breathing was loud in the darkness. “Since then, you killed his friend Calinor and tried to kill me. I don’t think he’ll be interested—”

  Cirang sprang forward, thrusting with the sword and slicing with the knife. Vandra blocked the sword, but Cirang’s dagger lagged as it sliced through flesh. Warmth bathed her hand and arm, spattered her face. She stepped back, ready.

  Vandra slapped her free hand to her neck. “You... bitch.” She wavered on her feet before sinking to her knees and then falling forward. Her blood continued to flow in ever weakening spurts.

  “I was always better than you,” Cirang said as she bent over to catch her breath once again. She waited until her enemy’s blood flow stopped pulsing, and then put two fingers on Vandra’s wrist. She felt two weak pulses before it stopped. A pool of blood spread beneath the body, glistening black in the light of the Moon. It filled the room with its distinctive, coppery scent.

  Cirang had no time to stand over her kills and gloat. Kinshield was surely not far behind. She returned to the bedroom, cursing at the pain in her side. Must have ripped a stitch or two.

  She rinsed off her face and hands and splashed water down her arms. Using one of the clean towels, she wiped away the blood trickling down her torso. After cutting a length of the bed sheet, she tied it around herself, exhaling to get it as tight as she could, and got dressed. When she pulled the tunic over her head, the neckline picked up a red stain of blood. Damn it. The blood had even spattered her hair. She didn’t have enough clean water to wash her hair and didn’t have time to hunt for the well to draw some more. In the other bedroom she found a mirror and a sharp razor the surgeon undoubtedly used for shaving.

  Carefully, she lifted small sections of hair starting at the top and began to cut it. By the time she finished, her hair was almost as short as Lilalian’s was. Her reflection pleased her, and virtually all of the blood had been cut off. The few specks remaining were easily wiped away with a damp cloth.

  She pulled Vandra’s mail shirt off — harder than she thought it would be with the uncooperative dead weight of the corpse resisting her. She rinsed off the blood, patted the armor dry and put it on. This would give her even more legitimacy if she needed to claim to be in the king’s service. Mercenary battlers could rarely afford mail. This one was marked with ribbons woven through the links around the elbow-length sleeves in the king’s blue and gold. Welcome to the First Royal Guard, Cirang. With this armor, she might receive free food and lodging, maybe even a foot massage.

  A sense of urgency quickened her pace. She preferred Vandra’s new sword to Calinor’s old one and took it, along with its scabbard. She stuffed two of the remaining clean towels into her knapsack, removed the coin purses from the bodies of the two battlers in the doorway and left, shutting the door behind her.

  A warhorse and the mule grazed lazily in the front of the house. She took their reins and led them to the barn in back, despite their protests. Stabling the mule would keep it out of sight, and maybe Kinshield would simply ride past without stopping. Inside the mule’s saddle bag was a flint box and toothbrush, which she put into her knapsack. Everything she didn’t have to steal or buy would get her that much closer to her escape.

  The mule happily munched hay in one of the stalls, but when she tried to mount Calinor’s golden battle horse, it balked with wide eyes and loud neighing. The white mare and painted stallion in the barn were no more willing to let her get near, even threatening to bite, which was both insulting and aggravating. She had to trap the stupid warhorse against a wall to mount it. It tried to buck her off, and she hauled in one rein until its nose was touching her boot. She was master here, and it would do as she commanded or suffer her wrath.

  When at last it surrendered to her will, she followed the road towards Ambryce and her freedom.

  Chapter 34

  Gavin packed up his bedroll. “Brawna, wake up.”

  “Huh?” Brawna asked, blinking sleepily. She propped herself up on one elbow. “What’s happening?”

  “Vandra and Calinor are almost to Cirang. She’s in a house, sleeping, and they’re about to go inside.”

  She got up and began packing up her belongings. “They’ll be wary. Vandra’s a good battler.”

  “How far away are they?” Daia kicked dirt over the pale glowing embers of their cook fire and splashed some water onto the wood.

  “Three or four hours, I’d gu
ess,” Gavin said. He started putting saddles on the horses.

  “We’re too far away to be of any help,” Daia said. “If Cirang manages to defeat them both, she’ll be gone before we get there, and Vandra and Calinor will be dead.”

  “Well I can’t just go back to sleep and hope for the best,” Gavin said as he mounted his horse. He created a ball of light and pushed it over Golam’s head and onto the rocky ground in front of the horse’s feet.

  “Of course not,” Daia replied. “I just don’t think we can do any good from so far away.”

  “Then stay here,” Gavin said. He tapped his heels against Golam’s sides and started off at a trot. He rode close to the tree line where the ground was flatter and there were fewer stones for his horse to stumble over.

  “Gavin, wait! Damn it.”

  He knew they wouldn’t let him go on without them, but leaving got them moving faster than talking did. When he heard the sounds of horses’ hooves beating the ground behind him, he stopped and waited so as to give them all the benefit of the path light.

  “You’re the most hardheaded man I’ve ever known,” Daia said as she rode up beside him.

  Gavin grinned at her. “It’s part o’my charm. Let’s go.”

  They talked as they rode, speculating that Vandra would be on her guard after Cirang’s last attack. Although Calinor was aging, he was a skilled and experienced battler. Gavin wouldn’t say so out loud, but he didn’t think a woman armed with only a dagger could best him. She would have to take him by surprise. Be vigilant, he thought.

  Though he was tempted to stop and use Daia’s gift to see what was happening at the house, he didn’t want to waste more time. If someone was injured, they would need him, and every second could make the difference between surviving and dying. Stopping to satisfy his curiosity wasn’t worth the risk. He wouldn’t have that weighing on his shoulders for the rest of his life.

  When he saw a house in the distance, he urged Golam to a gallop. A sense of urgency made his heart pound, though he didn’t know why. He leaped from his mount’s back and drew his sword.

  “Could you bring the light?” she said. “I can’t see.”

  Gavin’s magic-enhanced vision was fine, but he needed her ready too. He pulled the path light from where he’d left it and pushed it ahead of him.

  “Be ready,” Daia whispered, stepping in front of him.

  “She ain’t here,” Gavin said with certainty. Aldras Gar was quiet, and the gems in his sword remained dull, unlighted by the warrior’s wisdom magic imbued in the sword. “Brawna, tie up the horses.” He pushed the door open and went inside. The smell of blood filled the house.

  The floor near the dining table and chairs was drenched in blood. Bloody footprints were concentrated at the edge of a small rug and extended towards a room where two bodies lay in a pool of blood. Gavin rushed to them, unmindful of Daia’s cries of warning.

  Calinor was half-sitting, half-lying against a wall with his head bowed. The sound of ragged breathing accompanied a slow, shallow rise of his chest. Daia knelt next to Vandra and checked for a pulse while Gavin fell to his knees beside Calinor and set Aldras Gar down. He put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, shut his eyes and began to feel the warmth build in his belly. It flowed through his arms, out his hands and into his injured friend. The warmth became intense heat like a small sun was burning within him. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes tightly, resisting the urge to yank his hands away. It wouldn’t last long. Just a bit longer. He pushed through the pain to a place of inner calm and sensed the familiar white fluttering in his mind. That part of the healing process was as pleasurable as the previous part had been painful. If he could find a way to get to this place without the pain or without someone being injured, he might like to stay a while. This time, something was different. He sensed another energy added to his own, combining to heal even faster. Then he realized Calinor had magic healing power himself.

  His hands cooled more quickly than usual and the calm white fluttering dissipated. He opened his eyes to find Calinor watching him with a surprising expression of guilt on his face.

  “All these years...” Gavin said, shaking his head in disbelief. He offered a hand to help Calinor sit upright. “You never let on.”

  Calinor’s blush was deep enough that, even in the dim glow of the magic light ball, it was plain to see. “A man’s got to keep his own secrets,” he whispered, “but you have my thanks.”

  “Your secret’s safe.” Gavin patted his shoulder. “Glad you’re still with us.”

  Footsteps approached from behind. “King Gavin?” Brawna said. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, turning to look at her. “Vandra didn’t make it.” He looked at Vandra lying face down in the congealed and drying blood. She was as lifeless as the wood beneath her. He could do nothing for her except find Cirang and dispense justice. “If only I could’ve saved her.”

  “Oh.” Brawna hung her head.

  “It was Vandra’s time to die,” Daia said as she exited a nearby room.

  Gavin shook his head. In spite of all he’d been through in recent months, he still didn’t believe in destiny. Would a god, whether it be Asti-nayas or Yrys or some other, truly use the hand of a murderer to carry out his plan? “Vandra was attacked by the same person twice. There’s no destiny in that, only murder.”

  “There’s a lot of blood in there,” Daia said, pointing at the room she’d just come from. “A pail of bloody water, towels soaked in it, some thread and a needle on the floor. I’m willing to bet Vandra got a good cut in. Looks as though she tried to stitch herself up.”

  “If she’s injured, she’ll be slower,” Gavin said. “Easier to catch.”

  “She cut her hair and stole Vandra’s armor,” Daia noted.

  “Seems she stole my voice too,” Calinor whispered. He touched his throat, now wrinkled and scarred. “She took us by surprise. Didn’t even hear her breathe.”

  “No doubt,” Gavin said. “She’s crafty.”

  “But with the armor,” Daia argued, “she could pass herself off as one of the First Royal Guards.”

  Gavin nodded solemnly as he rose to his feet. “She’s probably heading to Ambryce.” He was confident Feanna wasn’t gullible enough to fall for Cirang’s tricks again. She’d been betrayed once before by the battler, taken to Ravenkind to be offered as a meal to the demon Ritol, along with her three adopted daughters. “Feanna knows Cirang and won’t be tricked by her lies this time. Her guards are skilled and sharp-minded. They won’t let her get close.”

  The elder battler stood unsteadily. “Better get goin’.”

  Gavin put an arm around him to hold him steady. “Whoa. Easy. You lost a lot o’blood. It’ll be a few days afore you feel like your old self.”

  “We’ll get you some food and rest in Ambryce,” Daia said. “You’ll be good as new.”

  Calinor nodded. “Food. Yeh, I could use a bite.”

  “I wonder what that’s about.” Daia followed the bloody footprints clumped near the edge of a small rug, which she pulled aside to reveal a cellar hatch. She opened it and peered into the darkness. Gavin pushed his light ball down into the cellar for her. “Two bodies,” she said. “Probably the owners of this house. Two more murders Cirang must pay for.”

  “Yeh, and afore she kills anyone else,” Gavin agreed.

  “We should bury them,” Calinor whispered.

  Gavin shook his head. “There ain’t time. We’ll send someone from Ambryce to take care o’the dead. I saw the hazes o’two horses in the barn earlier. Think you can ride?”

  “Try to stop me,” Calinor replied.

  Chapter 35

  Ambryce was just as Cirang remembered it: dirty and dilapidated, with whores and beggars on every corner and children running through the wet streets picking pockets and stealing wares from the merchants who stood by their carts, looking miserable. Unlike the highbrows of Tern, the people in this city didn’t let the rain stop them f
rom their business. They walked around, huddled under cloaks and dashing from one awning to another. They were used to hardship.

  Decades of corruption in the city’s government had won several gamblers much of the taxpayers’ money and had left the previous lordover destitute and suicidal. After his death, his son took control and worked to restore the city, but progress was slow, residents were wary of authorities, and the underpaid soldiers were themselves too impoverished not to look the other way when a few coins fell into their purses. It had never bothered Sithral Tyr, for the people were ripe for corrupting and would do whatever he needed of them with a minimum of prodding.

  It occurred to her that the Gwanry Museum would be the ideal place to leave the journal for Kinshield. Tyr had known the curator well, a scrawny, bug-eyed man who thought he was too clever to play by the rules. The advantage was Cirang’s; Laemyr Surraent wouldn’t know her in this body.

  As she rode through the city, people smiled at her, some waving or calling out a greeting, addressing her not as Lady Sister as they would have done in recent months, but as First Royal. She didn’t know them, but they seemed to hold her in some regard. She stood out here with her mail and shiny new sword and the magnificent warhorse beneath her. It was best to conduct her business quickly and leave so as to be noticed by as few people as possible. When Kinshield got here, she didn’t want him to easily learn what direction she went, when she arrived or when she left.

  At the museum, she dismounted and tied the warhorse to the hitching post. The ever-present ache in her side was annoying, but it was her back that made every step excruciating. She winced, trying to support her back with one hand on her injured hip, as she limped up the two steps to the stoop. The bells on the door jingled when she entered. She took off the wet cloak and hung it on a hook in the foyer.

  A tall, slim woman bustled into the room and greeted her with a warm smile. Gray streaks in her brown hair, and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth gave away her advanced age, though she seemed spry and alert. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Welcome to the Gwanry Museum of History. I’m the assistant curator. I see you’re wearing the king’s colors. King Gavin has been a frequent and favored visitor here. I hope you’ll send him my warmest regards. How may I assist you today?”