He shrugged. “I can’t say I have the answer to that.”
Finn regarded him for a moment, and there was something in his gaze that left Finn troubled.
Maybe he had misread Olanth. Here he had thought he was a nervous person, somebody who had been unsettled by everything that had taken place, but perhaps that wasn’t it at all.
What if he was eager rather than nervous?
Finn had seen eagerness like that before and recognized the danger of somebody who wanted to see death. He should have noticed earlier. It had come from the way Olanth had wanted Finn to regale him with tales of serving as an executioner. Finn should have known.
He shifted the sword and smiled tightly. “It’s really long past time that I return,” Finn said.
“If I ever make it to the city, can I find you?”
“Any of the city Archers would know how to find me.”
He studied him for a moment, but decided he didn’t want or need to explain that any further.
“That would be great.”
Finn looked behind him one more time before heading out of Weverth.
He’d been here longer than he intended—and longer than he wanted.
He climbed into the saddle and nudged the mare on her side, getting her moving. She whinnied, turning back to look at him, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. Finn ignored it. He was the one who felt annoyed.
“We’ve been here long enough,” he murmured.
An overnight. That was enough for him to feel like he had spent too much time in this village—enough for him to feel as if he needed to be somewhere else.
Thankfully, there was only this one assignment outside of the city, but even if there had been another, Finn wasn’t sure that he would’ve decided to take it.
The mare took off and they hurried along the path.
He glanced back at one point, thinking that somebody followed him, but realized that was just a rustling of leaves in the trees.
Finn shook those thoughts away, focusing on the road in front of him.
They had quite a ways to go still today, long enough of a ride that Finn wondered if he’d be able to make it back before it got too dark.
He would either have to ride in the darkness—and Finn was reluctant to do so, considering the upheaval that had been taking place around Verendal—or he would have to camp. That was equally unpleasant.
As the day stretched onward, the sun shifted in the sky, falling toward the treetops, then drifting beyond, sending shadows crawling along the King’s Road. He had pulled out Reginald’s journal again, turning the pages and feeling as if he just needed to find some secret that remained hidden from him.
The horse had slowed to a trot. Finn had stopped a few times, mostly to drink, relieve himself, or give the horse a break, but none of his stops had been long. He worried that if he lingered too long, he would end up stuck out overnight. He hoped that by prodding the horse to go a little faster, they could get back before it got too dark, though Finn started to doubt it the farther they went. Whatever speed the horse had the day before had been lost.
By the time darkness had fallen, Finn started looking for places to camp. He would get off of the road and back into the trees, maybe near a stream. When he had camped out overnight before, he had always preferred to do so off of the King’s Road, for a little measure of safety. There were enough highwaymen wandering along the road that Finn knew he needed to be careful. The sword would scare most away, but not all.
He was about to veer off the road when a steady rustling began to build behind him in the forest.
Finn twisted in the saddle, turning to look behind, but the pale moonlight didn’t provide enough light along the King’s Road. If he could have gotten a little farther, he would’ve escaped from the forest and would’ve been able to see much better than he could now, but the forest itself stretched around him.
Worse, the road wasn’t a straight shot through the forest, which was partly intentional. The king could use the contours of the forest if were they attacked from the west, but it also made it difficult for anyone to know if somebody followed. Larger caravans would have scouts that wouldn’t have the same difficulty as Finn did, but smaller caravans would struggle.
Finn debated whether he should turn back or keep going, or even whether he should consider darting off into the trees to see if there were any pursuers.
He kept going.
It got darker, the moonlight no longer enough for him to see much of anything.
The horse pulled on the reins a bit more than she had before, struggling against him. Finn nudged her faster, trying to urge her to greater speed, but she didn’t respond as quickly as he had hoped.
The rustling grew louder.
Not rustling. Thudding.
Now there was no doubt there was somebody behind him.
Or something.
Finn had seen other things in the forest before. Berahn. Alainsith. Witchcraft.
He didn’t know what was out here now, but wondered if it might be one of them.
Finn kicked the horse to go faster and they galloped along the road.
It was dangerous doing so in the darkness, but Finn didn’t want to be caught by whoever followed him. Try as he might, he didn’t manage to outrun the sounds behind him; the steady thudding continued. He couldn’t force the horse any faster.
Finn slowed the horse, then guided her off the road. He climbed down from the saddle and unsheathed the long, blunted executioner sword. If there was something out here in the forest with him, Finn wasn’t about to be surprised by it.
It didn’t take long before he heard the sound of voices.
Not berahn, then. Not Alainsith, either. The accents were local.
Finn ducked farther back into the trees. He remained as quiet as he could, but then the horse whinnied again.
Finn cursed under his breath and hurriedly wrapped the reins around a nearby tree, sliding off to the side and putting his back up against it.
Shadowy figures came through the trees.
“Told you he can’t have gone far,” a voice said. “Just move your horse…”
It was familiar, though Finn wasn’t exactly sure why.
He clutched the sword and moved carefully forward, out into the open.
“Can I help you with anything?” Finn asked.
Two darkened figures turned toward him and slipped off the horses they were riding.
“Grab him,” a voice said.
“I’m Finn Jagger, executioner for King Porman. Any action you take upon me will be taken upon the king himself.”
One of the men laughed—a dark, familiar sound.
A shuffling built behind him, the same sound that had prompted him at first, and Finn spun, holding the sword out.
Another figure jumped back.
He turned again, holding the blade out from him.
“You’re no swordsman. You might be quick with that blade, but I told them you wouldn’t be able to use it in combat.”
That voice.
Finn recognized it—but from where?
Finn swung the sword, and the shadows stayed just beyond its reach. He didn’t know how long he could keep it up. He wanted to keep spinning, but it was difficult to see anything in the darkness, and he couldn’t figure out where he needed to go with the blade.
“Lyle Martin. Are you with him?” Finn asked.
“The old fool. Got himself caught up in something he shouldn’t have, he did.”
Finn couldn’t tell if that meant they were a part of what Lyle had been doing or not.
“Were you involved in the witchcraft that was used on the Alainsith building?” Finn asked.
“I told you he said it was an Alainsith building,” another voice said. This one was quieter.
“Just do it. You’ll get your reward.”
Finn finally realized why he recognized one of the voices. “Olanth?” he said.
He still held out the sword. He wanted to know what wa
s going on and why Olanth, of all people, would have come at him.
“Warned you to be more careful,” Olanth said.
“The Alainsith abandoned everything around here long ago,” the first one said.
“None of that matters. We’re supposed to grab him.”
Finn spun, swinging the sword, trying to put some space between him and the others.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said to Olanth.
“I don’t need to do what? You have something they need. Paid me good money for information too.”
“What do I have? The horse?”
Finn glanced toward the trees.
He had just looked away for a moment, little more than that, but they surged toward him, as if they could see in the darkness.
Somebody reached for him, and Finn spun away, driving an elbow through their chest.
He spun around again, holding on to the sword, but somebody reached for it, trying to wrest it free from his hands. Finn squeezed it tightly, knowing he would be at a disadvantage if the sword left his hands. It was a wonder they hadn’t attacked him with any other weapons yet.
So far, he hadn’t seen any signs of other swords, but he couldn’t see much of anything. All it would take to meet his end would be a dagger in the darkness.
Something hit him in the side.
It was hot, painful, and he cried out.
There it is.
Somebody chuckled, a dark sound that filled the small space around him.
He tried to turn, but the pain shot up his back, through his arms, and he couldn’t fully move. He had been stabbed. Either that, or he’d been hit by a crossbow bolt.
But up close like this likely meant a sword, a knife, or a dagger.
Any of them were deadly in the dark.
He sunk forward.
“Grab it.”
Shadows moved near him, and Finn tried to strike, but could barely get his arms moving. They grabbed for the sword, ripping it free from his grip.
The sword? That’s what they’re after?
The answer came to him easily, even injured and with his mind now working as it should. He had seen it before and knew the truth.
Witchcraft. The sword carves through witchcraft.
Finn stumbled forward, trying to get it back.
“That’s for the king’s justice,” Finn said.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
It was Olanth. He was close enough that Finn could smell his ale-infused breath. Finn tried to get up, but he sank down. He grabbed for his side, feeling for the injury, but the pain was intense and likely fatal.
This is how I’ll go out? In the dark, along the road, serving the king’s justice. At the hands of men who were committing violence against the king.
Whatever reason there was for it, Finn didn’t know.
He scrambled forward, reaching out, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to grab for anything. The pain in his side was too much.
He lay flat on the ground, clutching his side.
There was a rustling of leaves, then a low, strange sound.
Somebody cried out.
Finn tried to look up, but could not.
Another cry, then it was silenced.
Something was here.
He tried to get moving, to crawl forward, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He sank to the ground again and tried to twist so that he could look up into the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything—just more darkness.
The pain took him and his eyes fluttered shut.
Sunlight streamed in around Finn and he jolted up, wincing immediately.
Pain shot through his side and he remembered the injury, how he had succumbed to it, and was surprised he was still alive.
He licked his lips. His mouth was dry—almost painfully so—and he could see nothing around him other than the bright light. At first, Finn thought it was a surge of brightness that came from the trees and the daylight spilling around him, but the longer he stared, the more he started to question whether that was it at all, or whether it was something else.
Finn tried crawling forward, moving somewhere, but his body didn’t react the way he knew it should. Everything hurt, though it was his side most of all—it throbbed, coursing with pain that filled him and stayed with him as he tried to move.
He couldn’t get up.
The noticed that the air had a strange odor to it. At first, Finn thought maybe it was him, but the longer he lay there, the less likely he thought that.
They’d left him here.
Most likely, they thought he’d died—and as Finn lay on the ground, he couldn’t help but feel surprised himself that he had survived the night.
He had to move though. Making it through the night was but one step.
Get up.
He suspected they’d taken the horse.
Strangely, the thought that struck him was that he would have to pay for the damn thing. More than just the horse was missing though.
He remembered them grabbing the sword from his hands.
He felt a sense of ownership of it. It was a gift Meyer had given him when he’d reached his journeyman status, and he felt pride in possessing it. It was a quality blade. Not only that, but he felt comfortable using it. Finn could wield Justice, and had done so in Verendal when he was permitted to carry out executions with the blade, but there was something about his own sword that left him feeling far more comfortable.
He groaned, fighting back the pain within him and sitting up. He held on to his side, clamping his hand down to keep the agony at bay.
A wave of nausea rolled through him for a moment before passing. Finn barely tolerated it, but he sat in place for a while, letting the nausea and weakness wash over him so he could move past it. When it finally cleared, he breathed out slowly and steadily, then gritted his teeth as he got to his feet.
That was far more difficult than it should have been. Still, he managed to get to a standing position, wobbling for a moment and staggering toward one of the nearby trees, which he used to rest upon.
A glint of metal caught his attention.
Had he dropped something?
Better yet, had his attackers dropped something?
Stumbling toward it, Finn dropped to his knees, grabbing the item on the ground. It was his sword.
His wounded mind took a moment to process this discovery.
They left my sword behind?
No. They wouldn’t have done that. They had wanted his sword.
Something had happened.
He remembered the cry he’d heard.
That had mattered. Something had happened to his attackers.
He stumbled forward, making his way along the road when he saw a leg.
It wasn’t attached to anything.
Finn leaned on the sword, using it like a crutch, suppressing the pain within him as he stared.
He stumbled even farther forward, and the stench began to fill his nostrils, that of death, of bowels having been spilled, and he found a body—that of the man who’d spit on Lyle—lying with his hands gripping his belly, his eyes wide even in death, and a massive gash on one arm. A dark circular tattoo on the inside of his wrist caught Finn’s attention.
It was a black rose.
Like he’d seen on the posters in the city. The Black Rose movement.
They’re all the way out here?
The man had been attacked by some creature.
As Finn staggered ahead a bit more, he came upon the remains of Olanth.
He was missing an arm, along with the leg that Finn had found, and part of his face had been cut off, but it was definitely him.
Berahn.
That was what this had to be.
Esmerelda had warned him that they were the silent killer—that they would spring upon somebody without the victim even knowing they were there—but Finn wouldn’t have expected to see anything quite like this.
He didn’t see any pawprints, nothing to indicate th
e creatures had passed through here—nothing other than the evidence of violence that left his attackers dead.
What of the horse?
Finn forced himself to stay awake long enough to look through the trees, staring at where he thought he might’ve left the mare, though he couldn’t remember. He had wandered off the road to get away from his attackers and hadn’t paid any attention to where he was going or where it would bring him.
He leaned on the sword, wobbling for a moment, and when he managed to stabilize himself, he listened. There was a soft shuffling sound every so often that came off to his left.
Finn limped toward it, clutching his side as he went. When he reached the space in between the trees, he hurried forward as quickly as he could and reached the horse.
She was unharmed.
He laughed to himself. “The damn thing didn’t bother to attack you?” Finn shook his head. “Must not like horse meat.”
The mare turned toward him as if knowing exactly what he was saying. Finn guided the horse back to the road and leaned on her flank for a moment. He wasn’t going to be able to walk, though he had no idea how he would tolerate the ride either.
To get back to the city, Finn would have to find a way.
After taking a deep breath, Finn grabbed his flank and threw one leg into the stirrup, climbing up and into the saddle. He slumped forward.
The horse took that as an indication to get moving, and though Finn tried to grab for the reins, she trotted off. Each step she took sent new pain surging into his side. He tried to fight against the pain, but could barely withstand it. At one point, he leaned over the side of the horse, retching, the contents of his stomach spilling out onto the King’s Road. Somehow, Finn managed to hold onto his pack and the sword, but everything else moved past him in a blur.
He felt every movement of the horse, leaving him trembling with pain. He continued to struggle and strain against it, to ignore the agony coming through him, but could not. He threw up again, then slumped forward, gripping the horse as tightly as he could, afraid to let go.
The moment he let go would be the moment he fell off the horse.
Finn drifted in and out of consciousness as he stayed atop the horse, barely able to stay mounted. Pain was a constant companion, blurring everything around him and leaving him slipping into a stupor. His mind struggled to work through the various injuries. Distantly, he thought he could feel a broken rib and perhaps something else internal, considering how much pain shot through his belly, though Finn didn’t know for sure. Broken ribs would heal in time, but internal injuries would not. Even Master Meyer and his skilled healing would not save him.
The Executioner's Rebellion (The Executioner's Song Book 4) Page 14