Nicene shook her head adamantly. “It is Boha-Annu. It was painted white years ago to mimic the benevolent mother goddess rather than the dark sister. Look closely, you’ll see the white paint flaking away, revealing the onyx beneath.”
“I thought that was smoke from the city discoloring the marble.”
She grimaced and said, “If only. It’s a sign of the corruption beneath leaking out.”
“If I believed this, which I don’t yet, what’s in it for the Marquis? He already held dominion over the city and territory. Did he not cede it to his son?”
“We shouldn’t be discussing this anymore in an unguarded place. It will summon her or her servants. We must be on holy ground,” she said urgently, tugging on his arm.
“And where is that in a city like this?”
“In the holy sepulcher, of course. At the temple of Dyzan.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course. I have heard of no such place in my last two days here.”
“Keep your wit to yourself. Let’s go,” she said, tugging on his arm.
He was immoveable. “I never said I accepted being your bodyguard. I have other matters to attend too.”
“But I told you I needed you. We just now discovered the Marquis’s plot.”
“I discovered nothing. If this pans out, then I suppose I can help you, but until I have something more to go on, I have my own web to weave.”
She cast furtive glances about the tavern. “What else are you going to do this time of night? Come with me and I can explain more that will be of value to you.”
He grinned at her, but shook his head. “I need to be sure that Anaias and Varlak bring their swords to bear against one another. I can’t do any less.” He slammed his fists together to emphasize the point.
“What makes you so concerned about Aldreth? What is in it for you anyway?”
“Let’s just say I have a commanding interest in what’s at stake. And I don’t like seeing gangsters tear up a city that should be thriving.”
She returned the rolling of the eyes. “How noble of you.”
He frowned at the word. “I’m not noble.”
“I’m sorry. What will it take for you to be my bodyguard? I can pay you very well.”
“I have other commitments,” he said, stoically before draining the last of his tankard.
She grabbed his face to direct his attention and leaned in close. “Tell me then. If I stay near you, can you not do both?”
He moved back in his seat and laughed. “No, I can’t.”
“I need someone strong, and you’re the only one in Aldreth that could do it.”
“I doubt that.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. You have no idea on the truth of the matter.”
“I think I have a good idea.”
“You’re insufferable,” Nicene snapped, folding her arms across her chest.
The Sellsword gave her a wink and said, “Tell you what. I’m going to go find the best place to overlook the coming battle. Come with me—if you can keep your head down and remain quiet. And I’ll hear no more talk of any damned goddess either. At least not until this battle is over. One calamity at a time.”
“Agreed.”
They got up to leave when both noticed movement in the air just outside the doorway. The wings of a bat flapped, making the creature hang in place. Its yellow eyes bore into them malevolently.
The Sellsword sent his tankard after it and the creature narrowly dodged away, disappearing into the vault of night with a hideous piercing cry.
“That was the biggest damn bat I’ve ever seen,” said the Sellsword, incredulous. “What other beasts live about the city?”
“It was no bat,” said Nicene. She gripped the Sellsword’s arm. “That was the homunculus of Anaias. He likely knows every word that has escaped our lips.”
10. The Ambush
The bartender hollered, “Are you going to pay for that tankard you just threw outside? Not all of us can blackmail wizards, you know!”
The Sellsword scowled at him, but he tossed a gold coin. Looking to Nicene he said, “Why should I be concerned at what Anaias hears that I have said? I’ve held my words, you on the other hand.” He shrugged.
“You’re cruel,” she said, as they stepped out the doors of the King’s Crown. Moonlight frosted the edge of clouds and, for once, the wind was still. “Do you know where you want to go to watch this battle?”
“I’ve an idea. I saw it the morning I came into Aldreth. This way.” He led her down dark streets in a zig zag fashion.
Aldreth was a boom town and, as such, its streets were not upon a grid system, but chaotic, winding whichever way they could from the original wagon ruts and footpaths that the first settlers carved out. Streets might curve in a semi-circle here and there because there had been a boulder too big to move decades ago when the first men sped the plow over the rough terrain.
Nicene produced a small oil lamp. She lit the wick with a touch of her ring. It glowed red hot for a moment, then was dark amber once again. The light brought the deep blue grays of the city flaring alive within a small five-foot radius.
The Sellsword was surprised. “That’s a neat trick.”
“It’s a very simple spell on the ring. A fire spirit is bound to the ring, but it can only work once a day, or rather once a night.” She held the lamp up to her face. “But, it’s the only magic I have. Owain bought it for me when we became betrothed.”
They strode down gloomy cobbled streets; night sounds were all around them. Grey houses with black windows resembled skulls, leering in the predawn light. Most all the denizens of the city had gone to sleep somewhere, but there were some out at even this unholy hour. A beggar trudged towards them. He moved with a limp, scraping his crutch over the rounded cobbles.
“Alms for the poor,” he cried. “Take pity on a poor, old veteran.” He shook a tin cup.
The Sellsword paused to evaluate the beggar. “Why are you out at this hour?”
“Tis the only time the city guard won’t beat me,” he answered. He held out the tin cup and smiled. He was dressed in rags, though somewhere in the filthy ensemble was the blue tartan of a soldier. His mouth was hideous, with mangled teeth and a wide scar splitting his cheek, lips and chin, granting a pale, hairless gash through his beard.
The beggar scrutinized them, bowed his head, and painfully dropped his crutch, falling to one knee. “My Lady, my—”
“Enough of that,” growled the Sellsword. “Stand. I trust you can keep a secret and not let anyone know you’ve seen us?” With that he dropped three gold coins in the man’s cup. More money than the beggar probably would’ve received in three months.
The beggar’s eyes grew wide. “My thanks, Lord. I was with you at Ravenna. May Innara herself bless you.” He struggled to stand, the crutch slipping as he sought to rise, and the Sellsword was forced to pick him up.
“Remember to forget.”
The beggar nodded vigorously, then whispered, “Five men wait around the corner at the end of this street. Two have flatbows, Lord. They speak of the Sellsword.”
“My thanks, soldier.”
The beggar hobbled off.
“What do we do?” asked Nicene. “Should we go back to the tavern?”
“No. Better to choose the field.”
“But they chose it,” she said.
“The only think they did,” he said, loosening his sword within its scabbard.
“Should I wait here?” Nicene asked, apprehensively.
He shook his head. “They’ve already seen our lamplight. They’re expecting us. That’s good.”
Her face flushed in the light orange glow. She looked back and forth as if hoping a doorway to freedom might be open. “I don’t understand.”
“Keep walking slow and easy toward them. I’ll cut through this other alley and come up behind with a surprise for them.”
She grabbed his arm. “You won’t abandon me?”
“Trust me,” h
e said, loping away silent into darkness.
Nicene looked ahead to the faint glow of the cold moon upon the end of the street. Putting one foot in front of the other, she slowly walked forward.
***
With a stealthy stride, the Sellsword rapidly made his way across the haphazard side streets. He jumped a low fence then crossed a plot of earth holding a dead garden. From there he scaled a shed and dropped down to a lower terraced street. He padded up the winding avenue with the agile grace of a panther, his senses keenly alert for any sign of danger. Time was running short. He came to a dead end surrounded by high ashen walls. With only the light of uncaring stars above to navigate his way, he raced back and took the next left-hand path.
A dilapidated building with scorch marks about the windows blocked his way. Glancing inside, he could see it was gutted and that no one, not even beggars were squatting inside. He passed through the back door, stepping carefully over the blackened wood and snow-like ash. The front doorway had been boarded shut. Peering through the cracks, he could see the five men as they waited at the corner. Nicene’s lamplight was drawing ever closer.
Unable to tear the boards from the doorway without alerting his foes, the Sellsword struggled to find another exit. There were no windows on the ground floor and what remained above was charred. But he was running out of time.
Ascending the blackened stair slow and easy, he treaded as lightly as he ever had in his life. A slight misstep and his foot punched a hole through the floor. Lightning reflexes caught his balance and he did not fall. Inching toward the window, he looked out at the open courtyard and his foes once again. It was a twelve foot drop to the ground. Knowing he would be outlined against the pale stucco, he prayed their attention would still be upon the lamplight. Easing himself out the sill, he dropped and crouched.
No invisible shafts streaked his way. Grateful that they still watched the approaching light, he drew his sword and stole up behind them. He spotted the two men with flatbows, one on each side of the alley.
Pulling his throwing knife, he edged closer. Coiling his right arm back, he snapped it forward and let fly. Like a striking serpent, the blade bit deep into the man’s neck with a dull thud. In his death spasms, the target gasped and pulled the trigger on his flat bow. The bolt struck a comrade in the foot. That one screamed. Then the Sellsword was upon them.
Like a shadow, he leapt from the darkness blade in hand. His sword punched through the heart of the other bowman. Nicene’s light illuminated his savage face and the last three saw smiling death. With a wild yell, he tore his sword out of the bowman’s body and crashed it through the helm and neck of the next closest man, hurling the mangled corpse to the ground. The next two men’s scimitars parried the Sellsword’s first swing, but a punch dagger in his left hand ripped through one of the would-be-assassins coat of mail and the fresh corpse dropped in a choking gurgle. The last opponent pulled his strike in fear and was cut along his right arm by the Sellsword’s blade.
Blood pooled thick at Nicene’s feet. She gasped and stepped back.
The last man, with the shaft still sprouted from his sandaled foot, attempted to limp away. The Sellsword grabbed him by his tabard and yanked him to the ground. Nicene stepped around the puddles and shone her light upon the defeated.
“They’re city paladins,” she exclaimed.
“Don’t deserve to be called paladins,” said the Sellsword. “Who sent you? How did you know where to find me? Talk, dog.”
The crippled man cried out in agonized pain and continued trying to crawl away, dragging his foot sideways. He could not use his right arm, it was bleeding too heavily.
“Let me help you with that,” said the Sellsword. He stomped the foot with the missile, breaking the shaft off where it met the sandal. The man screamed again. “Speak quick and I might let you live.”
The paladin looked at him with teary eyes. “We were paid to ambush you and the woman.” He was shivering.
“He’s going into shock,” said Nicene.
“If he wants to live he’ll talk. By whom?”
“Anaias paid Bearcoat. We were told you’d pass by here on the way to the city center.” He coughed and cried out again.
“What else? Are there more men patrolling for me?”
“No. Please, let me go.”
The Sellsword considered him. “You’ve lost too much blood. I’ll ease your passage.” He raised his sword.
“No!” cried both Nicene and the man together.
The Sellsword paused. “If I let you live, I never want to see your face again. Leave this place as soon as you’re capable.” He sheathed his sword.
A light screech made all three look up. Squatting on the corner of a tiled roof, like a miniature gargoyle, was the homunculus. It flapped its wings at them in mockery, screeched louder, then took to the skies once again.
“If only I had thought to grab a flatbow,” lamented the Sellsword.
“I don’t know if that thing can be killed by anything but sorcery,” said Nicene.
Snorting his contempt for that answer, he said, “Anything can be killed. It flew off in a hurry, didn’t it?”
The crippled paladin had passed out.
“Told you. I should have just sped his passage to the dark gates.”
Nicene shook her head. “I just didn’t want to see anymore.”
“Come on, we’re almost to the overlook,” he said, putting his arm in hers and leading them off to the city center.
“I’ve lived here half my life. What overlook?”
“Soon,” he said, “soon.”
She let herself be drug along, cursing with every footstep that it was the last and that their mystery destination was close at hand.
Somewhere a cock crowed and a bell tolled mournfully. To the east, pale blue light teased at the horizon, the tops of the mountains crowned with a fiery, glowing halo. To the west, the stars were fading fast at dawn’s approach. The morning air was crisp and the tang of pork-filled smoke kissed their nostrils.
“I’m famished,” said the Sellsword, breaking the silence between them.
“Ridiculous,” breathed Nicene. “A time like this you want to eat. We were almost killed.”
“Until I’m dead, I’m going to want to eat and drink.”
“You showed me that last night.”
They reached the city center and crossed the wide-open space unimpeded. Word of the coming clash had spread, clearing the center of the wide assortment of drunks and vagrants usually passed out near the fountains and side buildings.
“What overlook?” she asked again, looking in every direction.
“There,” he said pointing at a smelter.
She looked at him quizzically.
He gestured for her to follow. There was a rusty ladder going up one side and far above, a gangplank of sorts with a scaffolding wrapped all the way around the great, smoking pipe. It must have been a hundred spans high, making it nearly as tall as the wizards’ towers, though considerably slimmer.
“I don’t think I can climb that.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to be near me for safety, and I’m going up. You can be behind me or in front, your choice.”
“In front then,” she said. “You’ll have to catch me when I fall.”
11. The Rival
Twice on the ascent, Nicene had to pause and renew her vigor to accomplish the feat. The strength to carry herself up such a high ladder was nothing she would have ever regularly done with anyone. She tried to remember the last time she used her muscles so.
“Keep moving, I see men assembling below us, and I don’t want any joker to send a flatbow shaft our way. There is always someone who will try and hit you in the ass.”
“I’m trying,” she grated.
A few more rungs and they were at the scaffolding. They climbed up and looked over the wire mesh railing. It was a dizzying height, commanding a majestic view of not only the courtyard, but the entire city and beyond.
<
br /> On the ground, forces marshaled together along the north and south axis points. Captains barked orders and rallied their scurvy crews. As the sun crested the mountains, the golden dawn flashed along a multitude of sword edges. A bell sang out, this time in earnest, as if alerting the whole of the city that blood was about to flow.
“This should be interesting,” muttered the Sellsword, as much to himself as Nicene.
She drew her cloak about herself, the wind much fiercer than it had been on the ground. “Who do you think will win?”
“Hard to say yet. Anaias has more men, but Varlak doesn’t have the sun in his face.”
“Does that matter?”
He looked at her with a knowing grin. “It can make a difference.”
The shouting increased, but instead of rallying cries they were jeers between the opposing forces. Some called out mocking taunts while others flashed their enemies daring them to strike. A few bolts were loosed from flatbows, but these went high and wide as if the shooters didn’t want to harm anyone just yet, but merely intimidate their enemies.
“What are they waiting for?” asked Nicene.
“An invitation,” laughed the Sellsword. “Look there, finally the masters of this folly have arrived.”
Varlak came to the fore of his crew, his white beard flowing in the morning breeze. Beyond, Anaias had come with his retinue as well. Though the Sellsword had never seen him previously, it was easy to tell who was in charge. Anaias was bald with a striking flame-red goatee trimmed to a point like a spade. He wore a red cloak and carried a long black wand or a short staff.
“They’ll probably insult one another before it comes to anything,” said the Sellsword.
“Why do you want this? All this bloodshed?”
“Why not? These are bad men, ruining a city that should be working. If they die on one another’s swords I won’t have to kill them. Makes my job that much easier.”
“But why should you care? You’re a Sellsword, all of your money is blood money.”
He grimaced at her. “I don’t like seeing children hurt. I could kill men all day long but this place is bad. I’ve seen the beggars, the sick, and the people living in hovels that just want to work for their daily bread. If I can help them get that back and give this town a fresh start, I will.”
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