Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  His chances of making it across the open ground unnoticed were minimal, so he figured he would approach the rear guards straightaway and try to talk his way past them. A handful of revelers milled about the gardens, in awe of the sheer bounty of Macallisters unrivaled collection of exotic flora, so there was a slim chance the guards would mistake him for another gawker, but not only did it seem likely that an armed man clad in a Marshal’s garb would strike some suspicion, but Elias had a feeling that the guards may have been warned to keep an eye out for a man fitting his description.

  Nevertheless, he saw little alternative. He waited, patiently observing, and played through different scenarios in his mind’s-eye. He knew this was the night. He had to confront Macallister in public. The rancher had far too much clout for Elias to press charges against him with so little evidence, for a thorough search of Mayfair Manor had revealed not the smallest clue as to the assassin’s origins or a connection to Macallister, which left Elias with only the testimony of Bryn and Lar. He needed the people of Knoll Creek on his side if he hoped to bring Macallister down.

  Phinneas, for all his misgivings, saw the reason in this. It had been easy enough for Elias to draw the mayor to his cause, and while Bromstead had little legal power in matters such as these, which fell into the purview of the duchy’s magistrate, he was well loved by the people of the county and they would support him.

  It had been difficult to approach Bromstead at the funeral, although he had Bryn, Lar, and Phinneas at his side. Yet it paled in comparison to seeing Asa laid out.

  Everything about the experience was grotesque, from the waxy sheen of her skin, the thick, cloying scent of the undertaker’s perfume, to her golden hair, so lustrous in life, now brittle and stiff, like scarecrow straw. Gone from his betrothed was the light that animated her in life: an almost childlike exuberance that permeated everything she did, a gentle glow that softened Elias’s hard edges and calmed the brooding aspects of his personality. Bereft of that tempering influence, Elias felt only jagged iron in the core of him. So he held firm to that serrated hunk of ore, for rage and an appetite for vengeance were all that shielded him from a stifling deluge of grief.

  “I have been up at night wondering how something like this could have happened,” said Ulric Bromstead. “Why is my baby gone? And, Elias, where have you been?”

  “Hunting the men who did this.”

  Bromstead’s eyes cleared momentarily and hardened. “And?”

  “One of the assassins is dead by my hand.” Elias rested his hands on Bromstead’s shoulders. “I have learned they came for my father, and were hired by Roderick Macallister. On his head rests the death of my father and…” Elias shook his head, unable to say her name. Bromstead trembled and the blood drained from his face. Elias gathered Bromstead in a hard embrace and whispered into his ear. “I’m going to take Macallister in tomorrow night at his gala. He won’t expect it. Lady Denar will support me, but I need you there.”

  Bromstead scrubbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “And if he resists?”

  “Let’s hope he does.”

  Elias’s thoughts returned to the present. It was almost time. He wanted Macallister and his guests to glut themselves on his rich food before taking action. The torpor wrought by decadent beef steaks, roasted quail, heady wine, and strong knoll-whiskey might give him the edge he needed in taking the would-be wizard in.

  He checked that his sword was clear in its scabbard and sighed. “You might as well come out, Lar,” he said.

  Lar, who crouched behind a bale of hay, stood and tentatively, like a hound wary of his master’s ire, crept toward his friend. “How did you know I followed you?”

  “I told you to stay with Danica.”

  “Agnes has her well in hand. I don’t care what success you may have had with Slade, you need someone to watch your back. Macallister’s thugs may not be too keen on you taking him.”

  “Bryn is in position at Macallister’s own table, and I have Bromstead’s support. Once Macallister is subdued his lackeys will probably stand down.”

  “Probably?” Lar screwed up his face in an expression Elias knew all too well, which said he hadn’t fooled anyone. “Did you really expect me to stay behind?”

  “No.” Elias’s unblinking gaze still fixed on the rear of Macallister’s Manor. “But this isn’t exactly legal—I’m not really a lawman. If this thing goes poorly for me, I don’t want to take you down with me. Lar, this is my fight, not yours.” Elias felt Lar stiffen at his side.

  “That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me.”

  A pregnant moment of silence fell between the two friends.

  “We wait a few minutes until sundown,” Elias said. “I will take Macallister and Cormik with Bryn. You’re crowd control. Keep Macallister’s thugs off my back. Constable Oring will most likely defer to Bryn’s rank, but we should be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “The Mayor hasn’t let Oring in on this whole thing?”

  “You kidding me? That sheepskin couldn’t keep a secret from a stranger he met on the side of the road. The only reason a man like Oring is wearing the shield is that his Daddy wore it before him. No, Oring’s in the dark, though he shall be illuminated soon enough.”

  Lar stifled a chuckle. “Understood. I’m on crowd, you go for the head.”

  “The hardest part will be gaining entrance to the great hall.”

  “What’s the plan then?”

  “We walk right in as if we belong here, and hope for the best. If we encounter resistance we deal with it.”

  Then a thought occurred to Elias. He turned to Lar. “You said Agnes had Danica well in hand. Where is Phinneas?”

  Lar grinned and looked toward the horizon. “Sundown, eh? Is that because that’s when Macallister is serving dinner? That’s what the Doctor said.”

  Elias opened his mouth but his words died on his lips as an explosion of light stole his attention. A barn on the western perimeter of Macallisters property had burst into flame. The two guards posted at the rear entrance of the Manor ran toward the barn, screaming bloody murder. Other hands soon followed and set about toppling one of the nearby water silos.

  “Phinneas Crowe,” Elias breathed.

  Lar’s grin stretched wider yet. “He said you might need a distraction.”

  †

  Familiar with the interior layout of Macallister Manor from some few visits in his youth, Elias strode purposefully toward his quarry, Lar close on his heels. He held his head high and neither meandered nor hurried, projecting what he hoped was an air of authority. He preferred not to encounter any resistance before reaching the great hall.

  Two idle sentries stood at the ornamented double doors that led to the great hall. They each wore ceremonial sabers, but Elias had no doubt that the weapons were as functional as they were comely. The men were clean shaven and dressed in velvet waistcoats. They didn’t have the grizzled look of the mercenaries Elias had seen outside. These men had the look of dandies, and Elias surmised they were of Macallisters own household and were chosen for their bearing and not their brawn. As such, he was willing to bet they were none too eager for a fight.

  “Who goes there,” said one of the men, while the other produced a guest list.

  “The queen’s business, that’s who, citizen,” Elias growled in a gravelly voice. “Two of my Marshals hold the perimeter. I need you two to mind the exits. There is a dangerous enemy of the crown at large.”

  “Marshals...” stammered the sentry with the guest list.

  Clearly, Macallister did not hire his men for their skills in oratory, Elias thought. “Go—NOW,” he ordered, affecting all the exasperation of a seasoned general barking orders at a greenhorn.

  The two men scrambled off at a near run, the latter dropping the guest list in his haste.

  Elias gave Lar a single nod, then threw open the double doors. His boots clacked on the marble floor as he, without missing a beat, strode with long, deliberate steps toward the cen
ter of the room. Lar followed Elias into the hall, closed the doors behind him, wedged a hatchet between the ornate handles, stood with his back to them, and brandished his other weapon, a long hafted axe.

  Macallister surged to his feet. “What is the meaning of this!” he bellowed.

  Elias quickly took stock of the situation. Cormik, who had been mingling, edged toward the head table, which was situated on the far wall, perpendicular to the entryway and the tables of the guests in mimicry of a royal dining chamber; two burly men who stood on either side of Macallister’s table began to inch toward a couple of broadswords conveniently hung on the wall in seeming decoration; Bryn’s hands covertly slipped into her lap to draw the daggers she had secreted away in her garters.

  Elias paused his advance and threw back the flap of his duster, exposing the hilt of his sword. “Roderick Macallister, you are hereby charged with the murder of Padraic Duana, Asa Bromstead, the attempted murder of Danica Duana, and high treason against the crown. You are bound by law to stand down.”

  Those that sat at the dozen tables perpendicular to Macallister’s gasped as one.

  Constable Oring began to stand, his features crinkled in confusion, and his mouth working soundlessly. Macallister placed a restraining hand on the constable’s shoulder and forced his most gregarious smile and opened his arms. “Elias, dear boy, I don’t know what or whom has put these poison notions in your head, but they are simply not true. Please, let us discuss this reasonably.”

  Elias felt a warm, tingling sensation creep over his bosom. Fearing some perfidious sorcery on Macallister’s part, he clasped a hand to his chest. His father’s shield felt warm to the touch.

  Meanwhile, Ulric Bromstead stood on the other side of Macallister and took a deep breath. “You can discuss it at the Constabulary office in town, Roderick. Lady Denar recognizes Duana here, as do I.”

  Bryn rose to her feet and said, “Aye, that I do.”

  Macallister shot Bromstead an incredulous look. “My dear Mayor, I shall have some things to say to the Magistrate about all this most irregular, and frankly illegal, repositioning of authority. I only wish the good Magistrate was able to make it tonight, although it is perhaps in your best interest that he did not.”

  “Son,” Macallister continued, turning back to Elias, “no one feels the loss of your father more than I. Surely you must know I would have never lifted a hand to harm you and yours.”

  His father’s shield grew warmer yet in Elias’s hand, and with it came a cold certainty. “You lie.”

  “How dare you barge in here with these ridiculous, unfounded accusations!” Macallister cried. “You’re not the law!”

  Elias bowed his head, lowered into a fighting stance, and peered at Macallister from under the brim of his hat, which cast a shadow across his stern features. “I am tonight.” His voice was scant more than a whisper, but veritably crackled with arcane force and echoed off the far corners of the hall with an insistent power.

  Macallister must have seen something in Elias’s black eyes at that moment, or perceived the heft of the arcane in the distiller’s words, for he blanched. “Take him down,” he said.

  “Belay that order,” Bryn said as she inched closer to Macallister. “On the queen’s authority, stand down. The crown recognizes Marshal Duana as the sword of the law.”

  Macallister’s thugs froze, hesitant to act against a member of the royal bloodline.

  Macallister, sensing his thugs’ reticence, feigned sitting down in resignation only to whip out a bejeweled dagger from inside his coat. He leveled it at Elias and cried, “Volate!”

  Bryn, threw a kick at his outstretched arm, but despite her fluid agility, Macallister had already triggered his spell.

  In an eruption of blue light the dagger streaked across the great hall, unerringly homing in on Elias in the span of a breath. Elias felt like he had been struck in the chest with a sledge hammer. The dagger, however, did not impale him, but rebounded off his duster and clattered to the floor.

  Bryn, who followed through on the momentum of her kick, spun behind Macallister and pressed a stiletto to his throat. “Stand down, you traitorous swine!”

  “One-thousand gold stags to whoever guts this bitch!” Macallister screamed.

  The promise of such riches spurned Macallister’s henchmen into action, greed getting the better part of discretion. Bryn punched Macallister in the back of the skull with the hilt of a dagger and the rancher fell to his knees. The Vanguard dropped into a defensive posture. She held one dagger inverted, the blade lying against her forearm, and the other pointed toward the closest of her attackers. “Mayor, find a safe place,” she said, though her eyes never left the men who circled toward her, “we need you in one piece.”

  Meanwhile, Cormik intercepted Elias and drew his rapier. “Let’s see how your father’s bauble holds up to Kveshian steel!”

  “I don’t want to kill you Cormik,” Elias said, and he discovered he meant it. Despite all Cormik had done to him in his twenty-five years, he had bigger fish to catch. “Put up your sword.”

  “You have dishonored my name, and for that I demand satisfaction.”

  Elias felt his badge cool. He could sense the rancher’s rage radiating in red waves. Elias sighed, for while Cormik may well be ignorant of this father’s machinations he realized the brash young noble could not be reasoned with. He wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. “Lar, why don’t you help Bryn. This one’s mine.”

  He circled Cormik and while he kept his hand fast on the hilt, he made no move to draw it. Elias heard his father’s voice echo in his mind as he stepped within range of Cormik’s rapier: Leave your enemy an opening and so direct where he will strike.

  The rancher circled him in kind, his posture tight, coiled to strike. As Elias closed in on him, Cormik lunged. Elias sidestepped and spun, easily dodging the overextended thrust, and instinctively caught Cormik’s rapier in his left hand. The gloves he wore were crafted of the same enchanted leather as his duster, and while the edges of Cormik’s rapier pressed into his palm they cut neither glove nor hand.

  Elias drew in a single, fluid motion, pulling Cormik toward him, and crushed the hilt of his sword into his jaw. Bone crunched audibly as Cormik went down, unconscious before he hit the floor.

  Lar charged across the room giving Elias and Cormik a wide berth. He bellowed like an enraged berserker from the North and, unable to come up with a better tactic, leapt onto the opulent dining table that separated him from the melee ensuing on the other side. He swung his axe over his head in two-handed grip as if chopping wood.

  The target of Lar’s unwieldy attack parried the blow with ease, but it took his attention off Bryn. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she kicked the other thug square in the chest, repelling him, spun back toward the one Lar had engaged, and drove her dagger deep into the joint where shoulder met torso. A fine spray of blood spurted from the wound as Bryn pulled out the dagger and turned to block a slash from the swordsmen at her flank. Although the wounded thug had dropped the blade from his useless arm, Lar followed up by crushing a booted foot into his face, dropping the man.

  Finding himself outnumbered and seeing his compatriot bleeding like a stuck pig and with a ruined nose to boot, the remaining hireling threw down his sword and surrendered.

  Meanwhile, Macallister had recovered his senses and crawled under the table, waiting for an opening. Once the behemoth Lar abandoned his perch on the table, Macallister snuck from his hiding place and pitted the entirety of his weight and strength against the very antique he had only minutes before been dining on. He spat out a cantrip from his scant arcane repertoire. With a groan of protest, and a silver burst of kinetic magic, the massive oak table tipped onto two legs, teetered, then turned on its side.

  Lar and Bryn didn’t realize their imminent predicament, until they heard the ominous creaking, but before they could react the table slammed into them, and they found themselves pinned beneath it. Lar, reacting with an agi
lity belied by his size, managed to get his hands on the edge of the table as he fell. Lying flat on his back, he was able to mitigate the weight of the table and keep it from crushing the life out himself and Bryn, but the question remained for how long.

  Macallister turned to confront Elias only to find that the distiller had already dispatched his son. “So, you’ve come to kill me, and take your revenge,” he said. “You’ll find it harder to take down a wizard than his retainers, Duana.”

  “Slade was twice the wizard you are, and I crushed his skull with my bare hands,” Elias said blandly. “Sadly, I need you alive.”

  Macallister’s face turned crimson. The trail of blood that ran through his hairline dripped. He raised a fisted hand and thrust it at Elias. “Feora!” A golden ring on his finger glowed the red of molten iron, then spat a gout of red flame.

  Elias, reacting purely out of instinct, raised his sword as if the magic tempered steel could deflect the furnace of flames that threatened to consume him, even as he heard the voices of onlookers crying out in alarm.

  His sword did not turn back the spell—but nor did he feel the bite of the flame.

  Tongues of flame lapped all about him, sweeping past in an infernal arc, before wheeling, as if caught in a tornado, and funneled into his sword. The firestorm howled about him, but Elias held fast to his sword, as he felt an electric thrum of power coursing up his arms and into his body. The runes branded into his forearm throbbed and from beneath the sleeve of his duster poured a blue glow.

  A silence fell over the room as Elias disappeared, devoured by the conflagration. The flame subsided with a derisive guffaw from Macallister. Much to his confoundment, in the wake of the fiery paroxysm stood a defiant Elias, drawn to his full height. He looked like nothing so much as a man returned from hell: he held his sword aloft, in a high guard, as red flame rolled along the length of the blade, and smoke snaked off him in writhing, serpentine strands.