by Ben Cassidy
“Drop it,” the Ghostwalker said.
Warwick dropped his crossbow. It occurred to him in a sickening moment that Gregor couldn’t see either of them from where he was watching from the second floor of the mill.
The Ghostwalker waved the gun. “Now move.”
Gregor swung the barrel of his rifle around.
He couldn’t see anyone anymore. Just that stupid mule that was trotting along the edge of the stream, and the mercenary’s headless body at the far end of the bridge.
Gregor shifted, pulling up his rifle and moving towards the next window. He nestled down and peered into the dark terrain in front of him.
With the low moonlight and the creeping fog, it was a challenge to see anything at all. It was a miracle that—
Someone moved, emerging cautiously from the near end of the covered bridge.
Gregor trained his rifle on the figure.
A man, dressed in a black hooded cloak. A Ghostwalker. He began running towards the mill.
Gregor tracked his movement with the long rifle, exhaled, and fired.
The rifle shot cracked out into the night air, loud and piercing.
Duval glanced over across the darkened mill room at Belvedere.
“I got him!” came Gregor’s voice from through the ceiling. “Another Ghostwalker. He’s down.”
Tomas closed his eyes and hung his head.
Belvedere grinned. “Problem solved.” He gestured to Duval. “Go out and check it out.” He looked down at Tomas and Bronwyn. “I’ll watch these two.”
Duval nodded and head towards the door.
Gregor pulled back from the window, and began the process of reloading his rifle. It would take at least two minutes, and Gregor liked to make sure he was ready for any contingency. His alert eyes continued scanning the scenery outside.
The Ghostwalker lay on the path, unmoving. A dark patch of blood was already seeping into the ground underneath him.
The sniper smiled as he bit off the end of his rifle cartridge.
Easier than popping a jack rabbit.
Duval moved outside, his sword clutched tightly in one hand. The chinks in his mail clinked as he moved.
The Ghostwalker lay face down in the dirt.
Duval walked up to him and kicked his foot underneath the body, the flipped it over.
The smile on the Baderan knight’s face vanished.
Even in the thick darkness, he could recognize the features of the face.
It was Warwick.
Duval looked up with a start. He gripped his sword with both hands.
A man emerged from the shadows of the bridge. The Ghostwalker. The real Ghostwalker.
With a shout, Duval lowered his head and charged.
Without pausing his step, the Ghostwalker lifted a pistol and fired.
Gregor hesitated for a moment in the middle of his reloading process, staring wide-eyed out the window.
There was a spark and flash from Duval’s breastplate as the pistol ball hit him. He tumbled back to the ground.
The Ghostwalker kept striding forward. He tossed the spent pistol to the ground and reached for something slung around his shoulder.
Gregor ducked below the window, using the sill as cover. He kept reloading the rifle, going through each motion with deliberate swiftness.
The Ghostwalker slung out some kind of short-barreled musket. As Gregor watched the man clicked back the lock on his weapon.
With a musket at this range, Gregor had little to worry about. Even if the Ghostwalker could shoot accurately at this distance, the thick wood of the mill’s wall was more than enough to—
There was a flash and a thundering boom like a small cannon going off.
The iron dart of the whale gun whistled through the air and punched a hole the size of a pumpkin just below the mill’s second story window.
Before Gregor even knew what was happening, the projectile had slammed into his chest.
He was dead before he hit the opposite side of the room.
“What in the Void—?” Belvedere roared.
A crash came from upstairs, a sound like boards pattering onto the floor and a heavy object thudding into into something solid.
Bronwyn smiled. “I told you,” she said teasingly.
Tomas grunted and tried to get to his feet, his arms still tied behind his back.
Belvedere noticed and dashed up to him. “Stay down!” He slammed the butt of his musket across Tomas’ face.
Tomas collapsed back to the ground, practically landing on top of Bronwyn.
Belvedere turned back towards the open door of the mill.
The cloud of smoke from the whale gun was enormous. It hung in the air in a tattered black cloud.
Kendril dropped the weapon, gasping with pain. The recoil had been greater than he had anticipated. He was fairly certain the wound on his arm had started bleeding again. His right arm had gone almost numb from the shot.
With a groan the Baderan clad in armor climbed back to his feet. He shook his head, then lifted his sword. His armor was dented where the pistol shot had hit him.
Kendril reached for his short swords.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Ghostwalker,” the Baderan growled. He launched forward.
Kendril took a step back, careful not to put weight on his bad knee. He had tied a piece of cloth tightly around it as a makeshift brace, but it wasn’t helping as much as he had hoped.
The Baderan roared like a bear. He swung his gigantic sword at Kendril’s head.
Kendril dodged to one side, pivoting on his good leg.
The greatsword passed through the air in front of his face and gouged into the dirt of the road.
Kendril swiped quickly with one of his swords. The blade deflected off the Baderan’s armor.
With a cruel grin the Baderan swept his mighty sword upwards.
Kendril tried to block with his other short sword. The force of the blow was so powerful that he was knocked back several steps, right to the edge of the roaring stream. He barely managed to hold onto his weapon. His sword arm ached all the way up to the shoulder.
The Baderan swung the greatsword in a great windmill over his head and charged Kendril again.
Kendril tried to ignore his freshly bleeding arm and throbbing knee. He planted his feet and prepared to take the impact.
The Baderan screamed in a kind of furious rage. He chopped his sword down with a force that would have broken an anvil in two.
At the last possible instant, Kendril darted off to one side. He rolled off into the tall grass along the edge of the bank.
The Baderan sliced his sword down through empty space. He frantically tried to curtail his forward movement, but the force of momentum and gravity were too great. He stumbled over the edge of the bank and into the foaming stream below with a might crash of water.
Kendril limped to the edge of the bank and glanced over the side.
The Baderan was bobbing in the deep water, already being pushed quickly downstream by the mighty current. The next moment, his head vanished under the white-capped flow.
The one downside to fifty pounds of armor.
Kendril turned back around.
A mercenary in buckskin with a slouched hat stood outside the door of the mill. He held a loaded flintlock musket, leveled right at Kendril. The smallest hint of a smile was on his face. “Mr. Kendril, I presume?”
Their eyes locked for a moment.
Kendril broke to his left.
Colonel Belvedere fired.
A blow like the kick of a horse struck Kendril on his right side. He spun from the hit and slammed back into the ground. A fiery stab of pain shot all the way through his right hip. His head was just a foot or two from the edge of the steep bank.
Colonel Belvedere appeared above him. The smoking musket was still in his hands.
Kendril tried to stand. Pain exploded through the right side of his body. He fell back to the ground. His right leg was almost entirely nu
mb. What little he could feel of his hip was wet with hot blood.
He had been shot too many times before not to know what had happened. It felt like the musket ball had passed all the way through the flesh of his upper leg, thank Eru. He could only hope that no major arteries had been severed.
The dark shape of Colonel Belvedere loomed above Kendril. The buckskin-clad mercenary looked down at the wounded Ghostwalker with pure rage. “Seven men,” he seethed. “Seasoned mercenaries, all of them. And you killed them off like cattle!”
Kendril grasped weakly at his belt for some kind of weapon. Even though his mind was sluggish from pain, he knew there was nothing left to grab.
Belvedere kicked Kendril hard on his right side.
The world erupted into a pain that Kendril had forgotten could even exist. He almost passed out. In fact, for several seconds he probably did pass out, because he next heard Belvedere again in mid-sentence.
“—that way?” Belvedere was saying. He threw down the musket. “Well, I’m going to finish the job, Ghostwalker, and now it’s personal. I’m going to make your death slow and painful. You won’t even—” He reached for his belt, and froze. His hand clutched at the empty sheath for his knife. “What in blazes? Where—?”
The mercenary stiffened suddenly, grabbing at his back. He choked, eyes wide, then he collapsed to the ground, twitching and jerking.
Kendril was getting hazy from loss of blood. He tried to focus, to make out the dark figure where Belvedere had stood, the mercenary’s long knife in their hand.
“Well, well,” said a disturbingly familiar female voice. “He seemed quite surprised, didn’t he?”
Kendril put a hand to his bleeding hip, trying to stop the flow of blood. He couldn’t afford to pass out. Not now.
Bronwyn stepped over Belvedere’s body, her bright eyes fixed on Kendril. “Now it’s your turn, handsome.”
Chapter 21
Bronwyn turned the large knife over in her hand. “This is ridiculously huge, isn’t it? I’m amazed I managed to get it off the good Colonel here earlier without him noticing.” She gave the man’s body a rueful kick. “Just like most men. Always willing to underestimate a woman.”
Kendril pushed his hand down harder on his bleeding thigh. He couldn’t get up, and his swords were out of his reach. He glanced up at the mill.
Bronwyn knelt down in the grass by the bank. “You’re wondering about poor Tomas, I suppose?” She gave an evil smile. “I didn’t kill him, but I did conk him on the head before I came out after this lout.” She wiped the knife off in the grass. “He may still be worth something to the Jombards, if they can get him to talk.”
Kendril set his jaw against the pain that coursed relentlessly through his body. “And what about me?”
“You?” Bronwyn gave a laugh that was almost musical. “Why my dear Kendril, you are absolutely useless. Oh, come on now, don’t be offended. You’re simply a weapon, a soldier obeying orders.” She looked up at him with a sly smile. “Of course, you are a marvelous specimen, even with that burned face of yours.” She held up the knife, and let the blade glimmer in the low moonlight. “I mean, you took out eight mercenaries, all by yourself. That’s impressive.” She lowered her voice a notch. “Well, technically speaking I killed the last one for you, but that can be our little secret, eh?” She glanced back up at the path to the mill. “And you really dressed one of those poor blokes in your own cloak, so that he would get shot instead of you? Now that was clever.”
Kendril tried to move, but the pain was too great. He couldn’t even move his right leg anymore. He considered for a moment the odds of making it over the edge of the bank into the fast-moving stream, but realized that he would never stand a chance.
Bronwyn leaned in, the knife still in her hand. “So what happened to old Marley, Kendril? Is the poor old man dead?”
Kendril didn’t say anything. He kept as much pressure on his leg as he could.
Bronwyn sighed. “Death seems to follow you everywhere you go, doesn’t it?” She rested her chin on her free hand. “And you seem to follow me everywhere I go. I can barely turn around without seeing you behind me. First Balneth, then Vorten, and now here at the tail-end of civilization.” She tilted her head. “A girl starts to wonder, you know.”
“Eru in Pelos,” Kendril exploded, “you saw what the Seteru did in Vorten, Bronwyn. You’ve seen the carnage they’ve wrought across all of Rothland. Why are you helping them? They don’t care about any of us. We’re just sheep to them, animals to be slaughtered at their whim.”
Bronwyn’s face darkened. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Kendril grunted in pain. “I don’t understand. The Seteru may be powerful, but they’re not gods. They’re just using you, just like they use all the people who worship them blindly. You need—”
“Enough!” Bronwyn shrieked. She stood quickly, the knife held in front of her. “I will not listen to your blasphemy.”
“Then end me,” Kendril said between clenched teeth. He looked up at the dark-haired woman. “What are you waiting for? You know I can’t stop you.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flashed. She sprang forward like a panther, straddling Kendril and pushing him back to the grass. The blade of her knife pressed against his throat.
Kendril bit back a cry of pain. Already the loss of blood had made him too weak to fight back.
“Is this what you want?” Bronwyn purred. She traced a finger down the scars on the burnt side of his face. “A quick end?”
Kendril didn’t say anything. He glared at the witch, determined not to lose consciousness despite his spinning head.
Bronwyn leaned in suddenly, her knife still tight against Kendril’s throat. She kissed him on his mouth, then pulled her head back with a smile. “The Great Fang is coming soon,” she whispered. “A week. Maybe two. All Redemption will burn, and then all Rothland.” She ran her finger along the bridge of Kendril’s nose. “I could kill you now. End your suffering before it has begun.” She gave him a playful kiss on the cheek. “But he wants to kill you himself.” Her golden eyes looked sadly at Kendril. “And truth be told, Kendril, I don’t think I can kill you. After all, we’ve been through so much together. We’re like old friends, you and I.” She gave a mischievous smile. “Old lovers, even.”
Kendril stayed still. He couldn’t respond.
Bronwyn got up as quickly as she had jumped on him. She brushed her tangled hair back and stood to her full height. “Goodbye, Kendril. I’ll see you again when Redemption is burning.” She turned and started to walk away.
Kendril exhaled. He tried to push himself up to a sitting position.
Bronwyn paused for a moment, as if contemplating something. She reached down and picked up one of Kendril’s fallen swords, then turned around. “On the other hand,” she said with a slow smile, “you’re such a terrible nuisance that I think killing you now might really be the best option.” She tossed the knife aside and stepped back towards Kendril, the sword pointed squarely at his chest. “The Great Fang will be disappointed. But really, why take the risk?”
Kendril glared up at her. Apparently he was not cursed after all.
Bronwyn drew back the sword to strike. “Goodbye, Kendril. Rest well.”
“Go to the Void, witch,” Kendril spat back.
Bronwyn gave an amiable shrug. “You first.” She started to lunge forward.
A shape hurtled out of the darkness from behind the woman and slammed into her svelte form.
With a startled cry Bronwyn pitched forward and hurtled over the edge of the bank. A moment later there came a loud splash and scream from below.
Tomas crashed into the ground beside Kendril, gasping for breath. His arms were still tied behind him. On his forehead was a large swelling bruise.
“About time you showed up,” Kendril said. He put his head back on the ground. “She was about to skewer me.”
“Well, forgive me for not rescuing you earlier,” Tomas said. He struggled back to his feet,
looking down to the river.
Kendril stayed where he was, his hand still pressed against the wound in his thigh. “Can you see her?”
Tomas shook his head. “That water’s fast and deep, and the bank is high.”
“I know,” Kendril said. He closed his eyes. “I got a good look at it earlier.”
“What about Marley?” Tomas asked.
Kendril gave a slow, sad shake of his head. “Didn’t make it.”
“Poor blighter,” Tomas said somberly. He dropped down to the grass, fumbling for the fallen knife with his bound hands. “Give me a minute and I’ll be out of this.”
“Take your time,” Kendril said. “I’ll just lie here and bleed to death in the meantime.”
Tomas looked out at the roaring stream again. “Think she’s coming back?”
“With two of us here?” Kendril gave the barest shake of his head. “Not likely. She’ll pull herself out of that stream a mile or so downstream, then disappear.”
Tomas tilted the knife up in his hands, then began sawing furiously at the ropes around his wrists. “You say that like you think we won’t find her again.”
“We won’t find her again,” Kendril said. “We don’t need to.”
Tomas cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t need to? Wasn’t finding Bronwyn the whole reason why you convinced me to come to Redemption in the first place?”
“She told me what we need to know,” Kendril said. His voice was weak from loss of blood and fatigue. “The Jombards are coming. A week or two at most.” He looked up at Tomas. “And you can bet Bronwyn will be with them.”
One of the ropes on Tomas’ wrist snapped. He kept up his furious cutting. “Sounds like we need to get back to Rothland. Alert Olan and the other Ghostwalkers. If the Seteru are really planning a strike here on Redemption, they’ll need reinforcements here.”
Kendril sighed. “As much as I hate the idea of seeing Olan again in my life, I agree that staying here doesn’t do as much good anymore.”
Tomas cut through the last of the ropes around his wrists, then shook the strands off his arms. “Finally. I thought I was a dead man back in there. Those mercenaries were after you, you know. They kept mentioning that a Lord Blackstone had sent them.”