The sharp reports did more than simply frighten the inhabitants of the estate—it also drew the attention of the Heresiarchs. Within five minutes, a patrol of four red-robed guards rushed up the street and pounded on Lord Damuria's gate. The Steel Company mercenaries who opened the gate refused to let them in, but the Heresiarchs refused to leave. A second patrol arrived on the scene, followed by a third. By the time the Lady's Bell rang out the ninth hour of the morning, a full score of Heresiarchs stood outside Lord Damuria's mansion.
The stink balls continued to go off, with ear-splitting force, at regular intervals. The Hunter had dropped close to two dozen into the chamber pots and nightsoil barrels—close to twenty of them had gone off by this time.
A wicked grin broadened his face as he caught sight of the coach coming around the corner of the mansion.
Perfect.
A steel-clad mercenary sat in the place of driver. Four Blood Forest horses—characterized by their long, arched necks, well-chiseled heads, powerful shoulders, and short, strong limbs: the perfect breed for agility and strength—pulled the heavy vehicle. The body was built of solid oak, and sat atop steel springs, with thick axles and steel-rimmed wheels easily two paces wide. Clearly a carriage built for protection and comfort, with speed as a secondary concern.
And the nobleman flees.
As if on cue, a coughing Lord Damuria emerged from the mansion's front doors. His expensive robes hung askew, as if he'd thrown them on in a hurry. His long white-blond hair, usually tied into a tight tail, hung loose around his shoulders. Even his precise goatee appeared disheveled, adding to his haggard appearance.
"We go now!" His shout carried across the courtyard and up to the Hunter's perch.
The Hunter caressed the grip of his handheld crossbow. A single well-aimed bolt could put an end to Lord Damuria, and his task would be complete.
He froze as another man exited the mansion. Hair so dark it appeared purple, plain features, and a frame on the sturdy end of average. The Hunter's jaw clenched.
Captain Dradel.
The captain hustled toward Lord Damuria, shooting wary glances around. He spoke, but the noise of the activity in the courtyard and outside the mansion drowned out his words.
"Enough, Captain!" Lord Damuria cut him off with a slash of his hand. He stood a hand's breadth taller than Captain Dradel, and broader in the shoulder. The Hunter didn't hear what Lord Damuria said, but his keen eyes saw the tightness in the captain's expression. With a stiff nod, Captain Dradel followed Lord Damuria toward the coach.
The Hunter half-drew the crossbow, but stopped himself. Built for its convenience, it lacked the power of a full-sized crossbow. Even from his high perch, the bolt wouldn't reach his two targets. Besides, he'd need his ammunition once Lord Damuria's coach rolled out of the gate. He had just four bolts—two per crossbow. It made no sense to waste them, or the costly argam coating their tips. One good shot would bring Lord Damuria down, but only a fool failed to bring back-up.
The nobleman and mercenary captain clambered into the coach. Two Steel Company men climbed onto the tail board at the rear of the carriage, and another joined the driver at the front.
Five mercenaries to protect him. The Hunter grinned. I'd take those odds any day.
His smile faded a moment later as a platoon of mounted mercenaries, twenty-strong, clattered around the front of the mansion and surrounded the cart. His brow furrowed in contemplation. What now? After a moment, he shook his head. The plan hasn't changed. Just a bit more difficult, that's all.
Sliding down the roof, the Hunter dropped onto the third-story balcony and raced down the stairs. His own horse, an Odarian charger awaited him inside the front door of the empty mansion, saddled, well-fed, and loaded with enough food and water for three days. Shedding his heavy cloak, the Hunter adjusted his costly--though bloody uncomfortable—clothing and clambered onto the horse.
"Let's go, Comus." He'd chosen the name on a whim—Comus Steel-Eyed had been a warrior during the War of Gods, when demons roamed Einan, killing and destroying everything in their path. Comus had led a contingent of men to hold Needle Pass against the approaching army. Legend held that Comus alone stood and fought after the rest of his men had fallen. Though the Hunter doubted he'd actually killed a thousand demons as the ballads claimed, he enjoyed the irony of the name. Twenty-five to one—he couldn't say he'd ever faced worse odds.
The horse strode toward the door with the eagerness of a rested, well-fed colt. The Hunter could feel its rippling muscles, the nervous twitching as if aching to run. He'd chosen the Odarian charger for its endurance as well as speed. With its long neck, compact body, deep chest, and solid bones, the beast could run for hours without tiring.
No one paid him heed as he exited the mansion—all eyes were riveted on Lord Damuria's mansion. Thick pillars of smoke rose from the building, and more than a few of the watching Heresiarchs, nobles, and passersby had covered their noses against the reek.
Mercenaries appeared and began shoving people back, just as the heavy steel gates swung open. A troop of mounted, armored men clattered out, followed by Lord Damuria's coach, and ten more mercenaries in the rear. Before the gates pulled closed again, the Hunter caught a glimpse inside the Damuria estate. Servants and guards lay sprawled on the garden or knelt to empty their stomachs on the courtyard. Only the six men at the gate showed no sign of ill-effects.
I've got to hand it to Graeme, his stink balls may be unpredictable, but they're bloody effective!
The Hunter turned onto the broad avenue and trotted after Lord Damuria's wagon. He had no fear of being stopped by the Heresiarchs—those few not gathered around the Damuria estate gave him a respectful nod, which he returned. He'd paid a visit to his rooms in The Golden Sunrise, one of Upper Voramis' premier inns. There, he'd applied the disguise of a middle-aged nobleman, with a thin nose, receding hairline, heavy moustache, and a slight sag to his midsection. His clothing was cut in the latest fashion, though of a dark blue instead of the garish yellows, oranges, greens, and purples favored among the wealthy fools of Upper Voramis. No one would question his presence in Upper Voramis.
The column of armed men made no attempt to hide their passage. The Hunter had only to follow the angry shouts and dark glares of the nobles and commoners pushed aside to make way for Lord Damuria's convoy.
The Hunter closed the distance, then slowed his horse to match their fast trot. Sunlight glinted off the mercenaries' burnished steel backplates. They wore swords in open defiance of the Heresiarchs' ban, and more than a few carried crossbows slung over their saddles. Visorless helmets protected their heads, faces, and the backs of their necks. Chain mail jingled with the horses' bouncing gait.
Not a foe to take lightly, the Hunter thought.
His initial plan was to overtake Lord Damuria's fleeing carriage and put a pair of crossbow bolts into the nobleman. The broad avenues of Upper Voramis would give him plenty of room to maneuver past a few men. But with ten mercenaries riding two abreast between him and the carriage, he had to reconsider.
If Lord Damuria truly was fleeing Voramis as he hoped, he would have to leave via one of the three gates. North Gate lay beyond the Temple District, through Lower Voramis. Lord Damuria wouldn't be foolish enough to risk the maze-like streets and alleys of the Beggar's Quarter. That left the Eastern Gate and Trader's Gate to the south of the city.
Eastern Gate made the most sense. It was nearest Upper Voramis, and the way out led through the Bloody Hand-controlled Blackfall District. Yet the fact that it made the most sense also made it the most dangerous. It didn't take a genius to imagine an assassin lying in wait along Reveler's Lane, the busy thoroughfare that led from Upper Voramis to the gate.
As the Hunter expected, the column of mercenaries turned away from the Blackfall District and onto the broad avenue circumnavigating the Palace of Justice. When they headed south, toward the Merchant's Quarter, his suspicions were confirmed.
His impatience mounted as they pas
sed the Palace of Justice. Finally, after what seemed an interminable ride, the smaller brick-and-mortar buildings of the Merchant's Quarter came into view. Lord Damuria's column rode onto the wide boulevard that led directly toward Trader's Gate. Rather than following them, the Hunter turned Comus onto a narrower lane. This one ran parallel to the main avenue, but had less traffic.
Pulling Comus into a side alley, the Hunter dismounted and stripped the fancy clothing of his nobleman disguise. Beneath, he wore a plain tunic, breeches, and his lightweight leather armor. The alchemical mask remained in place. He'd be riding through Voramis in broad daylight.
From one of the satchels strapped to the saddle, he pulled out his heavy cloak and slung it on. His weapons—swordbreaker, long sword, and handheld crossbows--remained concealed within the bag, easily drawn if needed. Soulhunger, however, never left its place at his side, or in a hidden sheath pressed against his back.
He dug his heels into Comus' side, and the horse leapt forward. He couldn't gallop through the cobblestone streets, but the Odarian charger's canter ate up the road at a speed far beyond that of Lord Damuria's column. If he could get far enough ahead, he'd have a chance to get onto a rooftop, within easy range of his handheld crossbows. Or, at the very least, in a side alley that would give him a good view of Lord Damuria's carriage as it passed.
At every intersection, he glanced toward the main avenue, trying to catch a glimpse of the Steel Company column. He had to time it just right if he wanted to be in place.
Once he had gained sufficient ground on the convoy, he turned Comus down a street that would rejoin the main avenue. He leapt from the saddle before the horse came to a full stop, ripped one of his crossbows from the satchel, and knelt in the shadows of the alley.
The first of the Steel Company came into view, armor glittering in the sunlight, faces hard. The Hunter drew in a deep breath as the fourth rider passed, then the fifth. He raised the crossbow and prepared to fire. All he needed was one shot through the open window and—
He never pulled the trigger. Instead of a window, Lord Damuria's carriage had slats of metal-banded wood to cover the opening, like a pair of shutters. From this close range, the bolt had a chance of punching through the protective cover, but without a clear view of his target, it was no use. Shooting would simply bring the Steel Company down on him.
Damn it!
He raced toward Comus and, stowing the collapsible crossbow, hauled himself up into the saddle. Instead of heading toward the main avenue, he continued his canter along the side street.
His mind raced. What now? Only a fool would charge the convoy head on, what with twenty-five heavily-armed men between him and his target. But, if he could get outside the city gates ahead of Lord Damuria, he could ride ahead and lay in wait for the column. With the element of surprise and the right traps, an ambush could seriously reduce their numbers—perhaps enough for him to get a shot at Lord Damuria and Captain Dradel without shedding more blood than strictly necessary.
As the city wall loomed closer, traffic grew thicker. He was forced to slow Comus to a trot. Wagons laden with barrels, crates, and piles of produce rumbled past, drawn by teams of slow-footed oxen, draft horses, or stubborn mules. Pedestrians milled about— playing children, women carrying baskets filled with purchases, merchants pushing wheeled carts, and vendors hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. The scents of spicy peppers, cloves, garlic, and rotting produce hung heavy in the air, with just a hint of the fishy sea breeze rolling off the Port of Voramis to the west.
Comus shied away from collisions, but more than a few pedestrians were knocked aside by the big horse. The Hunter ignored the shouted curses directed at his back. He had to reach the city gates first. The Steel Company would suspect anyone following them, but they wouldn't think twice about a lone traveler ahead of them.
A loud crash echoed ten paces in front of him. A cart, laden too high with casks of ale, had tipped over as it rounded a curve. The wooden staves had split, deluging the cobblestones with beer. A thick, yeasty scent permeated the street.
With joyous cries, people rushed from the nearby streets, snatching up the fallen casks. A few threw themselves face-down to drink the pooling beer. The wagoneer cried out at his loss and tried to fight off the thieves. His cosh split open one head and cracked the forearm of a thin man making off with a small, leaking cask, but the rush of people overwhelmed him. Someone knocked him back, and he slipped in a puddle of his own beer. He fell hard. The curses he shouted at the thieves went ignored.
But the accident cost the Hunter precious time. The fallen cart lay across two-thirds of the street ahead of him. When he tried to turn Comus' head, he found a fishmonger's wagon to his left and a gaggle of onlookers blocking off the right and the road behind him. The horse shied nervously from the crowds and the noise.
Growling a curse, the Hunter leapt down from the horse, splashed through the puddle of beer, and seized the seat of the wagon. His lean muscles corded and, with a mighty heave, he shoved the tail end out of the middle of the street—clearing enough passage for the oncoming carts to rumble through. He glared at the slower-moving thieves.
"Get away!" he roared. The buildings around him seemed to amplify his voice, lend it authority and power that swept away any resistance. The last remaining beer larcenists fled.
The Hunter turned and strode back to Comus. Silence echoed in the once-busy street. All eyes were fixed on him, more than a few mouths hanging open. Ignoring them, he mounted and kicked Comus into a trot. The horse darted through the opening in the traffic.
The Hunter shook his head. Damn it! Not only had he attracted attention—everyone who'd seen that would talk about it for days to come—but the detour had cost him valuable time. Frustration mounting, he turned down a side street that connected with the main avenue a short distance from Trader's Gate. He could afford no more delays.
As Comus merged with the dense pedestrian, animal, and cart traffic on the main avenue, the Hunter scanned the crowd. His heart sank as his eyes caught the glint of steel outside Trader's Gate.
The thick crowds made the going slow. People gave way for him at a snail's pace, hurling insults and angry glares his way. Passing wagons and carts forced him to the side of the road, where he ran the risk of bumping into people and stalls. He lost valuable seconds trying to get around a pig some idiot had let loose in the street. At the gate itself, traffic had ground to a halt as a merchant carried on an argument at full volume with the Heresiarchs—something about his iron-shod wheels damaging the cobbled stone streets. By the time the Hunter rode through Trader's Gate, Lord Damuria's company had drawn a few hundred paces ahead of him.
Resisting the urge to race after them, the Hunter kicked Comus to a jog-trot. He couldn't get ahead of the nobleman's column, but perhaps he could follow close enough to sneak up on them after dark. He shot a glance at the sky. The sun hung at its zenith—he faintly remembered hearing the Lady's Bell toll out midday when he was riding through Upper Voramis.
Just a few more hours until sundown, he told himself. He could bide his time, keep far enough back from Damuria's column that he wouldn't draw attention.
Comus seemed to have a different idea. After days spent tethered indoors, the horse appeared to want to stretch its legs, work off some of the food it had eaten. He picked up the pace to a canter. Dust rose in a thick cloud behind the Hunter, and the thudding of the horse's hooves on hard-packed earth echoed across the broad, flat plains that stretched out from Voramis.
The Hunter tugged on the reins, but the spirited Comus refused to heed. He raced on, eating up the distance to Lord Damuria's column with great strides. With his limited riding experience, the Hunter could do little more than cling to the saddle and shout curses.
"Keeper-accursed fleabag son of a goat!" The insult was lost on the horse.
The Hunter's heart sank as the rear mercenary's head turned. A moment later, another man glanced over his shoulder. The first man spurred his horse to gal
lop ahead, parallel with the carriage. When he returned, he shouted something at his comrades. The rearmost ten mercenaries slowed their horses, turned, and dismounted.
Damn it!
Tension knotted the Hunter's shoulders. It grew to full-blown concern as the mercenaries unslung their crossbows, knelt, and loaded bolts. Only two men bore no crossbows; they drew swords and took up a protective stance before their comrades.
The Hunter had a moment to consider his next move. If he tried to ride through them, he had no doubt they'd do their damndest to take him down. He would heal from the injuries—though the bolts would inflict more than their share of pain—but he wouldn't risk the horse getting shot out from beneath him. A leg crushed beneath a collapsing horse would heal much more slowly than puncture wounds.
With a growl, he tugged on Comus' reins. This—or the sight of the armed men before him—had the desired effect, and the horse slowed to a trot, then a walk. The Hunter pulled the horse to a complete stop thirty paces from the Steel Company.
"State your business!" one of the two sword-wielders shouted.
"A traveler," the Hunter shouted back, raising his empty hands. "Heading south."
"On what business?"
"My own."
The Hunter lifted a leg over the horse's back and slid to the ground, landing lightly. He risked a glance at the bundle tied to the saddle—his weapons were just out of reach, hidden within the satchel. Without them, he had just Soulhunger to face the ten steel-clad mercenaries. And their eight crossbows.
"Why in such a hurry?" the mercenary demanded.
He shrugged. "You know the saying, 'Time is coin'." He reached for the satchel. "If you'd like, I can show you my—"
"Hands where I can see 'em!" The mercenary's voice was just a little too loud, with just a hint of quiver.
The Hunter studied the men. They fixed him with nervous stares, and sweat trickled down more than a few faces. The crossbows, however, didn't waver in the slightest—all eight steel-tipped bolts pointed at his chest.
Queen of Thieves Box Set Page 137