by John Conroe
After that, the river narrowed, picked up speed, and had dozens of crossings and bridges where Slinch could have allies waiting.
We were galloping all out but Jella glanced back at me, one brow raised. She doesn’t love riding, but like anything athletic, she excels at it. Her expression was easy to read. Which of the two to try for: the bridge or the ford.
I tried to reach out with my Talent, but I got nothing. Not unexpected. My heart was racing and I was almost seeing red with the rage of Slinch’s betrayals. That and the fact that he was on a boat on a river. Moving water is very disruptive to many Talents, mine included. I have no idea why but had always had problems Finding on or around creeks, streams, and rivers.
It would all come down to just a guess. An educated guess. Ahead of us, a fork appeared in the road leading out of Haven. Left for the bridge, right to the river ford. The horses ate up the distance to the split in the road, my mind racing to move as fast as their feet. Jella looked back, her expression now clearly one of impatience. I made my decision. I pointed out my choice.
She didn’t question or pause, just turned back and twitched her horse toward the right fork. The bridge was closest and perhaps we could catch them there, but our track to the ford was fairly straight, while the canoe would be following the river’s twists and turns. Plus, the river current slowed right down at the ford, giving us even more time.
However, it was, in my opinion, the best place to have waiting allies because the road on the other side travelled for only a dozen t-spans before it ran right into the intersection of three well-used roads, opening up multiple possibilities for escape. Tactically, it would be much better for Jella and me to take Neil and three boatmen by themselves than to face an unknown number of additional fighters. But I couldn’t be certain of catching Neil at the bridge and my gut said to go with the ford.
Jella took the right lane and leaned into the mare’s excellent gait. I fell back a bit as my city-owned horse was clearly unused to all-out racing. But the gelding didn’t like being left behind either and I felt him push harder. The spans raced by as we sped past a few travelers on the road, most of who stepped or jumped out of our way.
Ten of the longest minutes of my life had ticked by before the road turned back toward the river, meaning that the ford was approaching rapidly.
The sounds of running water grew louder and louder and then we came around a final bend and it was right in front of us. A wide, slow-moving section of river with a road on the other side. Four horses and two men holding their reins waited on the other side, and they reacted as soon as they saw us. One was short and dark-haired, the other tall and lean, with pale blond hair and icy blue eyes that I recognized immediately—Carter Toothaker, the king’s rook.
Chapter 38
In the same moment that I recognized the king’s assassin, I heard a yell from upstream. A glance that way revealed the big canoe was only fifty spans away. Turning back toward Toothaker, I instantly twisted my torso, leaning back as his bolt shot past me. He raised his bolter again, but it was his turn to dodge as a white arrow shot through the space his head had just occupied, slamming into the arm of the man behind him.
I triggered my own bolter twice rapidly as I kept my horse moving down and into the shallow river.
Without hesitation, Toothaker dropped his bolter and grabbed the wounded man next to him, throwing the poor bastard forward into the path of my bolts. The hapless lackey took one in his thigh, the other disappearing into the snow on the river’s edge. The four waiting horses whinnied and screamed in fear, rearing up before turning and bolting for the road behind them. Toothaker came right at me, charging into the river, his arm cocked back with a throwing knife held by its point, feet splashing water in every direction. I threw my empty bolter backward behind me and went for my second one even as he made his throw. The knife glittered as it spun end over end and despite my best efforts to shift and hide myself, I felt a sudden, searing pain in my right thigh.
An arrow from upriver clattered off the river rocks by my horse’s feet. I glanced upstream in time to see the canoe archer take an arrow from Jella’s bow through his neck. He fell overboard as Slinch and his allies tried to duck down below the gunwales.
My second bolter came free from its spot at the small of my back and I took careful aim at the king’s assassin. My first shot missed as he ducked suddenly, but my immediate second shot caught him in his right biceps, the force of the impact twisting him around.
My gelding wasn’t having any more of the dark river and slick stones and he stopped suddenly, almost throwing me. Rather than take time to wrestle him for control, I slipped off his left side, landing on my good left leg. Shooting pain made me glance down as I put weight on my right leg. There was no knife sticking out, but a gushing slash in the meat of the thigh and sharp, biting pain told me I had a real injury to deal with.
I forced myself to set aside the pain as the horse spun and headed back to shore, removing himself as a barrier between me and Toothaker.
Hand-to-hand is as much mental as it is physical. The will to win, along with exploiting your opponent’s weaknesses, are vital. I knew Toothaker was older than myself, but not a lot was known about the man, even by Brona. Ironic that his name was Toothaker, as he had been an irritation to the princess for years. An unsolvable puzzle, one her father refused to speak about. Right now, all I knew was that his right arm was wounded, as it hung limp at his side, and that we were both standing in the middle of a slippery, freezing river, me with a bleeding leg.
He splashed forward, a knife the size of a short sword in his left hand. I had my own knife in my left and Jella’s axe in my right, but my right leg was blazing with pain and refused to move smoothly. Both of us were hindered by the force of the river, the freezing water, and the slick stones that rolled and twisted underfoot.
Toothaker closed with me, snapping out his blade in a lightning-fast cut. Fighting with blades, short or long, is about attrition. Bleeding your opponent with multiple slashes, stabs, and gashes until they weaken enough for you to strike a killing blow. His flickering, snapping cuts were designed to cut me at distance and slice me to ribbons. But he only had one blade and the terrible footing of the riverbed hindered his two-legged agility.
I had two weapons, and I used my axe to block his left-handed cuts while flicking the tip of my own knife blade back at him in counterattack, all while awkwardly rotating around my unstable right leg. We traded strike and counterstrike, each trying not to slip and fall into the rushing river. He crouched low to slash my right leg; I blocked with the axe and then pushed the head of Jella’s weapon fast and hard against his thigh. The Forester axe has a pronounced toe, or top of the blade, by design and the razor-sharp tip stabbed into his leg.
He jerked away and slashed at my right arm, but I was already pulling back and he simply scored the handle of the axe.
His face was schooled to hardness, not showing any sign of pain, his will strong. He circled to my right, forcing me to pivot and block another flickering series of snapping cuts. The tip of his knife drew a line of fire across my right arm, but my own knife swept toward his belly, forcing him to step back suddenly. His left foot rolled on a stone and he dropped hard on his knee.
I leaned forward on my good left leg, hooked his left arm with the heel of my axe blade, dragging it close to stab with my knife. He twisted to his left, moving his fighting arm out of range. I slashed his limp right arm as I pulled my blade back, cutting hard into his wrist.
Blood immediately ran down his hanging hand, dripping in a steady stream into the water. He stepped back, carefully, creating enough distance to glance upstream. Unable to move fast enough to press my attack, I too snapped a glance at the canoe. It had capsized and filled with water, held against a big rock by the force of the river. Two bodies floated in the eddy created by the sunken canoe, pincushioned with white arrows. Slinch kneeled in the freezing water, hands over his head, the third boatman copying his posture exactl
y.
I turned back to Toothaker, watching the flood of expressions that crossed his face. Clearly here to help Slinch, who was now being held at bowpoint by Jella, fresh out of additional allies, he was knee-deep in freezing water, bleeding badly from several wounds. It was me and Jella, one of us with a bow, against just him. His decision came fast, his feet immediately backing him away, his body shifting back and forth in a manner that made me realize he was keeping me between him and Jella’s deadly arrows.
He made the far shore and backed rapidly up the road till the forest covered him from our view.
“If you’re done splashing about, perhaps you could give me a hand,” Jella said. “Especially since you’re already wet.”
She ordered both men out of the river at arrowpoint and had them lie on their stomachs. After I had used my belt to make a tourniquet around my thigh, I used their own belts to lash their wrists. Jella searched them, removed a half dozen blades from Neil’s clothes, then tied both their feet up to their lashed hands. With the prisoners secured, she pulled supplies from her waist pack, handing me a needle and thread while she used a birtch bark and pine resin tinder bundle to strike a fast fire.
By the time two squads of royal guardsmen rode up, I was tying off a bandage over my stitches and Jella had a hot bonfire burning to keep myself, Slinch, and the unnamed boatman from freezing to death. I had recovered Drew and Soshi’s bolters from the sandy shore where they had landed. Jella had ridden the white mare across the river and checked on Toothaker’s accomplice, but the man had bled to death.
The sergeant in command snapped off a brisk salute to me, his eyes flicking to the prisoners, the canoe, and the bodies. I ordered him to send one of the squads after Toothaker and kill him on sight.
My constable’s horse might not like fast runs or freezing rivers, but he had no qualms about me carrying Slinch slung over his broad back, as well as my own wounded self.
Not willing to underestimate Slinch, I slipped one of Jella’s snare wires over his head and anchored the other end to the saddle horn. One slip, one twitch too many and he’d strangle himself, and if he fell completely off the horse, he’d likely garrote his own neck straight to the spine. He couldn’t even talk, which likely saved his life. Had I heard one word from the man who attacked my princess and killed my teammate, I’d have pulled the wire tight and let him kick out right there.
Chapter 39
We rode straight to the castle and our escort carried both men right into the main entry, straight to the throne room. The massive doors, blackened and charred, hung on bent and broken hinges, testimony to Cort’s skill with the Powder of the Punished.
Inside the throne room, a pair of castle staff were mopping up a pool of blood. Back by the throne, I could see the princess, Rose, Brent, and Salis, along with Colonel Erser, the seneschal, and a full dozen other people, including Oscar and young Sydney. Then heads moved and I could see Lords Grantell, Sampson, and Samuel, Lady Kardian, Kiven Armstrong, Bishop Miller, and… my father.
Everyone stopped what they were doing, the moppers leaning on their handles and the throne party all looking up as the guardsmen dragged Slinch and friend straight to Her Highness while Jella paced alongside my limping self.
Brona, sitting upon the throne itself, looked from Slinch to me. “Captain, report.”
I had never seen her on the actual throne and the implications were immediately clear.
“Your Majesty,” I said to her for the second time in my life, a strange joy racing through my body. “My team tracked Raven Slinch to the riverfront. During the chase, his fellow conspirators were killed, as was my teammate, Drew.”
Her hard expression flickered over me, noting my leg and posture, then settled into glacial ice. She nodded for me to continue.
“Slinch escaped the scene by canoe along with this man and two others. Forester Jella and I, using borrowed horses, were able to intercept the canoe down at the Maple Ridge ford.
The king’s rook, Carter Toothaker, was waiting for them with horses and another accomplice.
Toothaker escaped, wounded and on foot, but a squad of guardsmen are on his trail. No one else survived.”
She took that all in, glanced again at my bloody leg, at Jella, the boatman, and finally settled her gaze on Slinch. Then her head tilted to one side. “Captain, could you perhaps loosen that wire around his neck? He’s turning purple and while I don’t object to the idea of his death, I do wish to delay it bit.”
I limped over and stuck a finger between the snare wire and Slinch’s neck. With a short tug, I loosened the loop a bit.
“Neil Slinch, Director of the Royal Ravens, I charge you with attempted regicide, treason, subversion of kingdom resources, embezzlement, and offering aid to Montshire’s enemies,” she said. “How say you?”
He looked at her, his body reeling as blood flowed back into his head. Behind Brona, little Sydney suddenly looked at me and mouthed, “Watch his neck.”
Instantly I stepped forward and pulled the anchor end of the snare wire from the guard corporal holding it. No sooner had I freed it than Slinch threw his whole body forward as hard as he could, his face bouncing off the hard stone.
“Tsk, tsk, Neil,” Queen Brona said. “You wouldn’t deprive me of a long chat with an old family friend, now would you?”
The guards regained control of him and stripped the wire noose from his neck. Held up by the guards, his head lolling to one side, face bruised from his faceplant, he still tried to grin. Jella reclaimed her wire from the guard, rolling it neatly and putting it into her belt pouch.
“We have much to talk about, Neil,” Brona said. “But no worries. We won’t torture you, and there will be plenty of witnesses, right, Victor? Right, Bottis?” she asked the two lords, who both nodded.
“You don’t fool anyone,” Slinch said. “You’ll use your abominations on me, which is only fitting as you yourself are the biggest abomination of them all.”
Before anyone could respond, the guard holding him backhanded the side of his face with a metal reinforced glove. “You will address Her Majesty with respect,” the corporal said, guaranteeing that I would be buying him many rounds of drink.
Slinch spit blood on the floor and tried to make a bloody, drooling smile of superiority at Brona. His expression faltered into a brief frown when Oscar leaned over and whispered into Her Majesty’s ear.
“Berkette? You’ve gone over to the Republic, Neil?” Brona asked, clearly surprised.
Slinch smoothed his expression to blankness, his jaw clenching.
Brona gave him a little smile, then turned to Colonel Erser and nodded. He, in turn, waved to a guard at the doorway, who stepped outside. Moments later, a big, bald-headed man with a leather blacksmith’s apron entered with three young men behind him. The men carried a small farrier’s anvil, an assortment of tools, several chains with attached manacles, and a small brazer which, based on its carrier’s thick leather gloves, appeared to be filled with coals.
“Mastersmith Tir, please bolt wrists, ankles, and his neck,” Brona said. Despite the polite wording, it wasn’t a request, but clearly an order.
Moving with an economy of motion that bespoke tremendous skill, Smith Tir riveted manacles around all four of Neil’s limbs as well as a collar around his neck, all five rings connected by expensive steel chain that could be adjusted as the guards saw fit.
Near the end of the process, Dr. Eltienne entered the throne room, carefully skirted the imprisoning process, and approached the acting queen.
“Doctor, what word on my father’s condition?” she asked.
He glanced at all the people, but she waved him to speak.
“Ah, His Maj…” He faltered as he took in her seat upon the throne. “Ah, your father, the king, is momentarily stable. His left kidney was punctured by a knife stab and his superior vena cava was nicked as well. He was tremendously lucky that his attacker”—the doctor looked at Slinch—“botched the heart strike. It was also fortunate that
I was still nearby after my earlier exam, Your Majesty. He has lost the kidney, but his bleeding has been controlled. He is unconscious, but we must be very wary of infection.”
“Would you repeat for the benefit of the others here why you had examined and treated him earlier?” Brona asked.
“At Her Majesty’s request, I examined King Helat for signs of long-term poisoning by scorpion sand striker venom. The king allowed the examination, and I did, in fact, find signs that he’d been exposed to very diluted venom for some period of time.”
“Why, Doctor?” Kiven Armstrong asked. “Why would anyone use that particular toxin?”
The doctor glanced my way, then turned back to the group. “Sand striker venom, if highly diluted, will bring on bouts of intense psychosis. I believe it was used in the last war to destabilize the woldling hordes.”
“And you absolutely know the king was suffering from such poison?” my father asked.
“Yes. The venom causes a green tinge to the sclera of the eye, the, ah, white part. It also damages the nerves in the bottom of its victim’s feet. The king showed both of these symptoms. Moreover, he instantly responded to the antidote I administered.”
“Your High… er… Majesty,” my father began, his tone somehow implying impropriety in the honorific of the acting queen. “How, pray tell, did you know to look for such poisoning?”
“Why, Lord DelaCrotia, it was your son,” Brona said instantly. “Not your traitorous one, but your patriotic one, who saw the signs in my father even as the king was ordering him jailed while in the depths of Neil’s induced psychosis.”
“I see,” Father said, looking my way, making it seem suspicious.