The jeweler stopped cleaning his wife’s face and turned to Mark. “They were going to kill us all. They didn’t try to hide it. After they killed you, they were going to do the same to us.”
“We all need to be gone before the others return,” said Mark. “They think I’m hiding among the men sleeping in the plaza. They could be on their way back right now. Can you and your wife move?”
“If you can help me get her to a friend not far from here, we can hide there until I think those men are gone. In the morning, I need to go to the central magistrate building. One of the other four men is a low-ranking member of Kaledon’s magistrates. I think they bribed him, but I know a few higher-ranking people whom I don’t believe sanctioned this. I’ll go to them.
“They searched the house and shop and found all the coin I had here. There was a sixth man, but he took the coin and left hours ago. He told the other men a ship waited for him at the harbor. Fortunately, I only kept part of our coin here. We’ll leave Kaledon, perhaps permanently. There’s still enough coin for us to live well and leave some to our children when we’re gone.”
“Let’s hurry,” said Mark. “Grab only items you cherish as irreplaceable, and let’s go. You get ready and find something warm for your wife. I’ll take this man into the shop and ask a few questions. Don’t take long. Figure on leaving in ten minutes.”
Mark didn’t wait for a response. He picked up the chair and carried the leader down the stairs, then set him against a wall next to a basin of dirty water. Taking a bucket, he dipped into the basin and threw water into the assailant’s face. The man sputtered and coughed.
Mark grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head against the wall. “You’re going to answer a few questions if you want to live. Who sent you?”
The man’s eyes rolled. Mark repeated the dousing with water. “Who sent you?”
“Go to hell!”
There wasn’t time for lengthy interrogations, establishing rapport, or worrying about rights and ethics. Mark needed information NOW. Holt’s death, the torture, and the men’s intent to also kill Mark and both Argahs obviated any of Mark’s hesitation. He pulled out his knife and cut off the small finger on the man’s right hand.
The scream reverberated around the room. Mark didn’t worry about neighbors hearing anything. Even if they did, by the time anyone interrupted, Mark and the Argahs would be gone.
“Once more, who sent you?”
The man, now sobbing, looked blankly at the ceiling. Only when Mark again grabbed the man’s right hand and moved his knife to the next finger did the man stir.
“Wait, wait! I’ll tell you. Dumon Klinster. He said you would destroy the cloth guild and many others. Hundreds, if not thousands of people would be out of work if we didn’t stop you. That’s all I know.”
“And he said to kill me and who else?”
When no answer came immediately, Mark pressed the knife against the next finger’s base to draw blood.
“Yes, yes! Everyone you worked with. I just did as ordered! It was to protect the guilds and workers. There’s also a warrant for you on a charge of robbery and murder in Brawsea.”
“Murder? Who was I supposed to have murdered?”
“How would I know!? A guild dumonote was in charge and told us about the warrant. He said he would retrieve guild property you stole that was being used illegally in Tregallon. We were sent after you when we found you’d left for Kaledon.”
“Tregallon. What about Tregallon? What were you going to do there?”
“I don’t know what’s happening there. We rode from Brawsea. When we stopped near Tregallon, we were told you were going to Kaledon. Dumonote Rynlow gives the orders. We just do what we’re told. Some of us were ordered to follow you to Kaledon. That’s all I know.”
Klinster and Rynlow. The Cloth Guild. Goddamn motherfuckers!
“We’re about ready,” Argah called out.
“How many of you are there?” Mark asked, applying slightly more pressure on the knife.
“FIVE! That’s all. Just us five. The rest stayed in Tregallon.”
Mark felt sick. What were those men doing in Tregallon?
He couldn’t leave the prisoner to report what he might have heard. Mark’s blood raced hot. Any thoughts of pity were overridden by images of Holt’s body being manhandled to lure Mark to the shop, Argah’s description of how they’d tortured Dayna’s husband, and the brutal beatings of Argah and his wife.
In one swift movement, Mark pulled his knife away from the man’s hand and plunged the eight-inch blade to the hilt into the top of his skull. One hard spasm resulted . . . and then nothing, as the blade severed nerves all the way to the brain stem.
It took Mark several hard pulls, even with his strength, to loosen the blade and pull it out of the skull. He wiped the blade on the man’s clothing, cleaning off blood and flecks of brain tissue.
“Coming,” he yelled, resheathing the knife. He climbed up to the residence again, never looking back. When he reached the top, Argah was holding up his wife with one arm and dragging a large bag with the other. Mark scooped the semiconscious woman into his arms. They hurried down the outer stairs and into the night.
Twenty minutes later, Mark and Argah stood at the back door of a medicinal shop while friends cared for the wife.
“What will you do now, Mark?”
“I have to get back to Tregallon. The man said he was part of a larger group that was looking for me there. He and the others were sent after me when they found out I was traveling here. Whatever happened there is probably over, but I have to go as fast as I can. Our horses are with Stillum. He should be all right because the five men are accounted for—the leader here and the four I sent chasing me in the main plaza. Still, I need to alert Stillum. I assume the sixth man you saw has already left Kaledon. I’ll collect the horses and other gear and be off.”
“Do you have enough coin to get you there? I’m afraid I don’t have any with me after the men stole everything at home and in the shop. But I could ask my friend to loan me enough to get you home.”
“No need. I left most of what we brought with Stillum. We didn’t expect to need that much this trip while we were establishing relationships and accessing the possibilities, but most of my coin is in Tregallon.”
Mark grasped Argah’s hand. “You stay safe, and if I never see you again, have a good, long rest of your life. It’s unlikely I’ll come to Kaledon again, and certainly not Brawsea. I’ll see what’s waiting at Tregallon before I make more plans.”
Stillum was not as sanguine that the Kaledon magistrates were as secure a refuge as Argah thought. “Not if these men have important-enough patrons. Oh, no one in Kaledon likes how Brawsea tries to make itself so important, but remember, the capital of Frangel is there, along with the royal court. You never know how any of them will react or who is backing who.
“I have a nephew in the magistrates. He’s not high ranking, but enough to keep me safe until you’re out of Kaledon. I’m thankful I was not part of your cloth plans. I’ll help you get off, but it’s best for us if I don’t see you again.”
Mark understood Stillum’s position. However, on this night, all he could think of was getting back to Tregallon. Stillum prepared the horses while Mark packed and secured their gear—two leather bags of coin, firearms, extra clothes, and food that Stillum’s wife and oldest daughter threw together. He would leave Holt’s saddle and other riding equipment and take both riding horses and only one packhorse. Within the hour, Mark said cursory goodbyes to everyone. He galloped away on the road that paralleled the coast east-northeast of Kaledon.
He rode as hard as he could through the night. By chance, both of Anyar’s moons took turns providing enough light for him to travel on the road—first the smaller one, and then, as it set, the larger moon appeared above the horizon. By dawn, his arms ached from leading the extra riding and pack horses. At a farm, he changed saddles to Holt’s horse, took enough food and water to get him to Tr
egallon, and rode off again. He left the one horse and some of the gear behind, to the farmer’s good fortune.
By mid-morning, the road wove through a series of low hills and through forests of Anyar trees—no terrestrial trees in the last hours. Mark’s initial frantic urge to return to Tregallon as fast as possible had finally succumbed to reality: he wouldn’t get there at all if he pushed the horses beyond their physical capability. He paid more attention to his mounts’ laboring, and in late afternoon he traded the horses for others at a large ranch.
An hour later, he fell asleep and almost toppled from his horse. The urgency to return to Tregallon didn’t negate physiological reality—his body needed rest. The sun touched the western hilltops when he staked the horses near a patch of tall grass and a rivulet of water. He threw a blanket on the ground and fell asleep within seconds.
When he awoke, staring at the stars, his mind flashed back to waking up in the white room after the mid-air collision over Colorado. The image vanished, replaced by memories of Holt’s unnatural head flop and stabbing the men’s leader at Argah’s house. Brief, quickly suppressed images arose of what he might find in Tregallon.
He estimated he’d slept six hours. In the dark, he re-saddled one horse and secured his gear on the second. His eyes could make out the roadbed, so he started the horses off walking until the approaching sun gave enough light for them to trot and then gallop.
He remembered that farms and ranches became more frequent from this point on the way to Tregallon. Conserving his horses became less important. He pushed until the animals labored enough that he figured they were nearing their limit. Then he stopped at a good-size ranch with a dozen horses in a corral. The pattern continued. Every few hours he’d change horses. None were of the best quality, but he only required that they keep galloping until he found replacements.
Another night passed with no sleep. Mark’s mind and body could run on adrenaline only so long. He was a capable horseman, but muscles, tendons, and joints protested from being continually stressed, and his vision began to deceive him until he saw phantom shapes.
Night fell again. He had to rest. He staked the latest horses and lay on the ground six feet away.
After what seemed like only moments, he jerked upright and looked around. In the starlight he saw one horse look at him as if to say, “What, you can’t sleep? I’m keeping watch.”
Mark’s heart pounded. Had he slept at all? The stars looked different . . . he thought. Whatever had happened, he didn’t feel as exhausted as before. Getting off the ground proved he must have slept because every muscle and joint protested.
Stiffly, he re-saddled, mounted, and started off walking, then moved into a canter. Finally, after ten minutes or so, he broke into a gallop. Whether the road was better, he couldn’t remember. Maybe his eyes had gotten accustomed to the low light, but he pushed on without a moon for an hour. The first lightening of the sky told him he had slept longer than he’d thought.
He thanked God for farmers when his horse stumbled within sight of a corral holding five horses. Nearby, a farmer and two grown sons were hitching two other horses to a plow. But Mark didn’t thank God when exchanging horses involved his handing over a small gold coin—the equivalent of $250.
When he passed a rock-strewn valley he recognized, he knew he would make Tregallon before sundown. He pushed the horses mercilessly. At mid-day, he changed mounts again, this time at a ranch. He came away without a detailed memory of the exchange or how much he’d paid the rancher.
By the time he saw the edges of Tregallon, a stoic sense of doom had replaced mere fear. Whatever had happened in the town was well past. What awaited him?
He raced past houses and businesses without noticing them. He was too focused on getting to their weaving “factory.” As he approached the location where his visions of the future were being developed, he dropped the lead to the packhorse and unconsciously held his breath.
A pile of cold ashes and burnt timbers lay in place of his dreams. He sat on his horse, thinking his worst fears had been confirmed. He was wrong.
CHAPTER 16
ASHES
His urgency to return to Tregallon had seemed to stretch out the miles. Yet the miles traveled were also too few because Mark knew at the end he’d have to tell Dayna Firman that her husband was dead and his body had been left in Kaledon. Now those feelings receded, to be replaced by worse images that rose unbidden.
He hadn’t dismounted at the factory. Now he urged the exhausted horse into one more run, this time the mile from the factory to Ulwyn and Gwanel Hovey’s house.
“No, no, no,” he chanted softly in sync with his mount’s hoofbeats. They raced down streets with late-afternoon shadows and citizens scattering to avoid his horse. Mark noticed people calling out and arms pointing at him, but he only stored the images for later reflection. He focused on imagining the Hovey house as he’d left it—as if by concentrating hard enough, it would come to be.
From two blocks, three hundred yards, he knew his effort at willing reality had failed. The Hovey house wasn’t the first burned building he saw or the second. It might have been the third or the fourth. He didn’t know.
On one side of the street lay one burned structure after another. On the other side, only a single burned-out shell stood in the location of the leather goods shop. On both sides, men and a few women sorted through ashes. Men wearing leather gloves and scarves over their mouths loaded structure remnants onto a large wagon.
Mark stood in the middle of the street in front of the burned-out Hovey house. He had dismounted, not that he remembered doing so. The horse trembled in exhaustion, reins on the ground. Workers stopped to look at Mark. One called out. Others looked at each other, as if wanting someone to tell them what to do. Despite the burned ruins of so many structures, only traces of smoke odors remained. The fire had been set many days earlier, and later, heavy rains cleared the air and turned ash into mush.
Mark stared with no sense of time, until a hand grasped his elbow. Only when the hand shook his arm did he hear a voice.
“Mark. Mark. We thought you must be dead.”
He turned to the voice.
“Wiflow?”
“With no word from you since you left and with what happened here, we all assumed . . . ”
Mark didn’t answer, just continued looking at the ruins.
“Come. Let’s walk to my house.”
“Ulwyn and Gwanel?”
Wiflow didn’t answer immediately. Mark turned his head to look at the Tregallon jeweler.
“Gwanel is fine. She’s staying with friends. One of the children came to be with her.”
“Ulwyn?”
Wiflow shook his head sadly. “Dead, I’m afraid. It happened before anyone recognized what was going on.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s go to my place, and we can talk.”
“What happened!?” Mark shouted, drawing more attention from the few people not already staring at the two men.
Wiflow sighed.
“As far as we can tell, about fifteen to twenty men came into Tregallon at first light. They broke into the factory. Thank God, no one was at work yet. In another half hour, all the workers would have been there. Several people saw them putting spinners and looms on two wagons. Most of the machines might have been in pieces, maybe to make them easier to move . . . I don’t know. Then flames burst out of the windows and doors. The men must have splashed oil around before starting the fire. We’re fortunate more of Tregallon didn’t burn, too. At least, the factory wasn’t set against other buildings, so when it burned, it didn’t spread.
“Gwanel only remembers men bursting into their house just after they’d dressed for the day. They struck her unconscious. I suppose we can be thankful the men pulled her outside before starting the fire. We’ll never know what happened with Ulwyn, but we found his body after the fire burned out.”
“What about the men? Didn’t anyone try to stop them?”
<
br /> “It happened so fast, and there were two groups of them. One here and one at the factory. By the time the town’s magistrates and a few men armed themselves, it was too late. A gun battle ensued. Townspeople killed two of the raiders and wounded two or three more. They left the dead and took the wounded, so there was no one to question.”
“I know who they were,” said Mark, his voice dead of emotion but laden with portent.
“Dayna was injured, too,” said Wiflow. “They beat her and scared the children badly, but she’s healing and waiting for Holt.” The jeweler glanced around. “Did he go straight home? It’ll be a shock for him to see his wife, but at least she’s all right, and their house wasn’t burned.”
“Holt’s dead,” answered Mark, his voice as dead as Holt.
“Merciful God! I’d assumed with you back that Holt was alright. Poor Dayna.”
“This is all my fault.”
“Your fault? How is this your fault, Mark?”
“I was warned. You and Ulwyn had reservations about the guilds, as did people in Kaledon. And Brawsea . . . it was all there in front of me. How powerful they were. How arrogant with their power and connections. Even Nigulas, the Harrasedic, warned me to be cautious.”
“The guilds? You think the Brawsea guilds did this?”
“I know they ordered it. Five men followed us to Kaledon. I killed one of them. He confessed the order came from Dumon Klinster, head of the Cloth Guild. They were supposed to kill us or maybe just me and Holt was incidental.”
Wiflow shook his head. “If it’s the Brawsea guilds, then there may be no recourse to justice. They’re simply too powerful, too rich, and with too many connections in the capital right up to the court.”
“Oh, there will be a bit of justice,” said Mark, “though not enough to make up for what’s happened.”
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