Stretching his still-sore muscles, he looked up to the sky. For the most part, the atmosphere above him was blue, with fat, puffy clouds sailing through its boundlessness.
Two weeks had passed since Tristan had regained consciousness in the Redoubt, and much of his strength had already returned. But he still had a long way to go, and he knew it. The dark veins that had once covered his body were gone, and the searing pain had been replaced with the relative relief of fatigue, soreness in his joints, and lingering weakness in his muscles. Otherwise, he felt like himself again. He smiled as Pilgrim stepped over a fallen log half buried in the mountain snow.
The first thing he had done after getting out of bed was to shave off his two-week-old beard. Shailiha had teased him mercilessly about it, telling him that between his recent illness and the full beard, he was looking more like their late father every day.
Everyone was greatly relieved that the threat from Nicholas and his creatures was gone, and their lives had regained at least a modicum of normalcy. Tristan, Shailiha and her baby, Celeste, and the others living in the Redoubt had all taken up residence in the royal palace above. Only Wigg and Faegan had refused to budge, remaining cloistered below. For Tristan and Shailiha it was indeed liberating to again be back in their old home, where the air was sweeter and the light of day could come streaming through the windows and skylights.
But the condition of the castle above was poor, making their security questionable, at best. Not only had the structure been looted, but parts of it, especially many of the windows and doorways, had been destroyed. Tristan had had the Minions transfer some furniture and decorative pieces from the Redoubt, as well as a good bit of food, wine, kitchen utensils, and linens. But the structural repairs had only just begun.
Drawing his ragged fur jacket closer around him to ward off a gust of wind, he smiled again. Shawna the Short and Mary the Minor, each of them wanting to take full control over all the ongoing domestic responsibilities, had begun shouting orders and squabbling as badly as Wigg and Faegan ever had—perhaps even worse.
Tristan had spent most of his time trying to get well. He had been practicing a great deal with both his dreggan and his throwing knives, so as to sharpen his skills and strengthen his weakened muscles. He estimated that he had only reacquired about half of his original speed. But little by little, every day he trained, he also improved. And it was good to practice again, even though he could not do so for prolonged periods.
Shailiha, Celeste, and Martha tended quietly to life at the castle and looked after Morganna. Wigg had joined Faegan in his attempts to restore the falsified Tome, but he also took time from that tedious work to get to know his daughter better.
But whenever Tristan thought of Celeste, as he so often did, he felt strangely conflicted. He was very drawn to her. Everyone living there knew it, including Wigg. But even though he sensed she cared for him, she also showed reticence in becoming closer. Further complicating things was the fact that she was the only daughter of his lifelong mentor and friend. In truth, Wigg knew her little better than Tristan did. Sometimes the prince felt he should try to shelve his feelings in order to allow the father and daughter to first come to grips with their new, blossoming relationship, and only then try to enter her heart more deeply. If indeed he ever did.
Wrenching his thoughts away from Celeste, he turned around in his saddle to check on the object he was bringing into the woods. It was his sole reason for coming up here today alone. For the first time in what seemed forever, there was no bodyguard of Minion warriors or clutch of helpful but quarrelsome gnomes to trample on his sense of peace. For what he intended to do was strictly a private affair.
He was going to scatter to the four winds the ashes of his only child, Nicholas, at the grave site of his family.
Finally approaching the little glade, he slowed his horse, then jumped down and tied Pilgrim to a nearby tree. The stallion affectionately rubbed his long face against Tristan’s shoulder as the prince untied the flap of the saddlebag to carefully remove a small urn sealed with wax.
Tristan stood at the edge of the clearing for some time, the memories of the people buried there swirling in his heart and mind. So too came back to him the thoughts of that amazing night he had saved Celeste from throwing herself off the cliff, when he was convinced that he would never see her again. He shook his head slowly.
Life has an interesting way of surprising one sometimes, he thought. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the center of the glade, where he had dug the graves containing his family and the Directorate of Wizards.
He went to his knees in the snow and gently placed the vase down next to him. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head, the only sounds the swirling of the wind through the surrounding pines and the occasional songs of the birds.
Had he been completely well, he might have heard the steps that came so quietly through the snow behind him. Or had his eyes been open, he might have seen the lengthening shadow as it slid silently across the ground.
But he did not.
He had barely a moment to register the pain of the blow to his head. And then everything went black.
The smell of smoke awakened him. Pine needles again, this time mixed with maple. Sooty and acrid, it was coming from a fire that burned and snapped too close to his head.
As he opened his eyes, his vision swam sickeningly. Slowly, it came into better focus, revealing white clouds sailing against the background of a bright blue sky. He was lying on his back. As he tried to sit up, his head hammered like an anvil. And then a sudden, sickening realization went through him.
His weapons had been taken.
“Welcome back, Chosen One,” came a voice from behind him. “So glad to see you are finally up and about.”
Tristan froze. Even without looking, he knew who spoke. But his mind refused to believe what his ears were telling him. Slowly he stood, and turned around.
The angular, almost emaciated face; decaying teeth; and dirty, wispy hair were just as Tristan remembered them. A campfire burned in the snow between them, a small stack of freshly cut wood sitting next to it. Scrounge sat rather imperiously on the gathered logs, keeping himself out of the snow. A Eutracian broadsword lay at his right hip, a dagger sheathed in a golden scabbard at his left. Tristan immediately recognized the knife as Wigg’s centuries-old ceremonial dagger, the same one Ragnar had used to place the poison into the helpless wizard’s eyes.
Then the prince’s gaze went to Scrounge’s right forearm. The sleeve of his fur coat was rolled back, revealing the miniature crossbow still strapped there, containing its five arrows. The string cocked tightly, it was clearly ready to fire. Scrounge raised it slightly, more perfectly aligning it with the prince’s heart. Tristan looked closely, and his nerves jangled in his skin.
The tip of each of the arrows was still stained in yellow.
Trying to calm himself, he looked beyond the assassin for a moment. Some distance away, Scrounge’s horse was tied to a tree. Hung on the pommel of the saddle were Tristan’s dreggan and his quiver full of dirks. To reach them, Tristan realized he would have to go straight through Scrounge, something that now seemed impossible. Lying on the ground behind the assassin’s horse was a crude litter.
Tristan looked back into the face he so hated, a flood of anger coursing through his blood. “You’re supposed to be dead, you bastard!” he snarled. His head was still swimming from the blow, his footing unsteady. He tried desperately to concentrate. “Which of my Minions failed me, allowing the likes of you to live? Apparently, I am going to have to finish the job myself.”
Scrounge smiled. “A great many of your warriors failed, I’m afraid. When I saw you at the bottom of the canyon, I immediately knew it could be a trap. But when I saw the nets descending, I realized that my hatchlings were surely about to be destroyed. Very cleverly done, I might add. When you suddenly soared up, I turned my bird around and flew back the opposite way, down the length of the canyon. As I did, I stopped every hundr
ed meters or so, urging the remaining hatchlings ever forward, giving them the impression I was still actively commanding them. They were all going to die anyway. So I used them to save myself. They’re actually quite stupid, you know. And in truth, I much prefer a horse.” A sick laugh came from him before he continued.
“Anyway, after covering what I thought to be a sufficient distance behind my troops, I headed up and out. Two of your warriors did see me, attacking me from above.” Pausing, he pursed his lips sarcastically. “But things ended badly for them.” He glanced down to his crossbow, and his meaning was not lost on the prince.
“The vast majority of your flying monkeys and scrubby-looking gnomes were so enthralled with what they had captured in their nets, they forgot to look for what they might not have captured. Even your wizards did not see me,” he went on.
“Not particularly honorable of you,” Tristan said quietly, “running away like that. But then again, you’re not the honorable type, are you?”
“Honor?” Scrounge laughed. “And perhaps the good and honorable Prince Tristan of the House of Galland will kindly tell me what one can do with honor! Can you eat it, good prince? No! Can you spend it? No! Will it buy you either the comfort of a jug of wine, or a hot meal? Or purchase for you the warmth of a willing young whore, to stave off the coldness of a night of the Season of Crystal? Decidedly not! Honor, indeed!”
Scrounge spat into the fire; the saliva hissed its way down, dying in the flames. Raising one foot on the pile of logs, he lowered the forearm with the crossbow to his knee. It still pointed directly at Tristan’s chest.
“But what would you know of such things, eh?” he continued. “Has the good prince ever been alone and crying, orphaned on the streets of Tammerland? Or slept in a cold alleyway, wondering if he will eat tomorrow? Or fearing what he must do to ensure that he can? Honor, he tells me! I was never in it for the honor, you fool—only for whatever Ragnar and Nicholas would give me! Crumbs from their table, to be sure, but oh, what crumbs they were! I am an assassin, the best there is, and my services go to the highest bidder. The only problem with that is that you have now managed to kill both my employers! Now that Nicholas and Ragnar are gone, and the Gates destroyed, you are the only remaining solution to my problems.” He smiled strangely. “Do you not see that, my prince?”
“No,” Tristan answered angrily. “Are you insane? How is it that I am supposed to solve your problems? All I want of you is to see you die.”
“Ah,” Scrounge answered. “We finally come to the heart of it. The one and only thing that the two us have in common. Except, perhaps, for the mutual desire to taste Celeste. And what is that one thing that binds us together, you ask? Why, our overriding desire to see the death of the other, of course. But our reasons for wanting these things are vastly different. You, you fool, do it for honor.”
“And you?” Tristan asked. “Just why is it that you still want my head? You could very easily escape, without the bother of confronting me. As you yourself just said, both of your employers are quite dead.” He paused for a moment, lowering his eyes menacingly. “And as you are about to discover,” he added softly, “I am not so easily killed.”
The crossbow continued to point straight at Tristan’s heart. At this range if the assassin released one of the yellow-tipped arrows, there would be nothing the prince could do to avoid it.
“Can’t you guess why I’m here?” Scrounge asked.
“No,” Tristan answered calmly. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“It’s the reward, of course!” Scrounge exploded. He snorted derisively, as if he were speaking to some dullard. “The one hundred thousand gold kisa your son offered for your life! A veritable king’s ransom! Or, in this case, should I say ‘prince’s’? The reward Nicholas never wanted collected, and believed would never be. Or have you forgotten? The prize still stands, and I plan to be the one who collects it.”
Tristan’s heart skipped a beat. Not because he suddenly realized that only one of them would come down off this mountain alive. He had known that from the moment he saw Scrounge. Rather, it was from the confirmation that he was still a wanted man, blamed for actions the populace did not know he had been forced to commit.
“I don’t believe you,” Tristan bluffed. “Ragnar and Nicholas are both dead, so there is no one left to pay you the money. And if they had conjured the kisa before their deaths, you would have simply stolen it and run, not bothering with coming after me. The pieces of your story don’t fit.”
Scrounge smiled. “That’s because you don’t have all of the pieces,” he answered. “In fact, the money exists, and is still being offered—but by someone new.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes skeptically. “And just who might that be?” he asked.
Scrounge tilted his head slightly, relishing the moment. “Can’t you guess?” he answered quietly. “Your hunters are now the remaining consuls of the Redoubt.”
Tristan’s couldn’t believe it—the once compassionate Brotherhood of Consuls wanted to see their prince dead.
“I still don’t believe you,” he bluffed again. “Why would they want me killed?”
“Oh, they have their reasons, of that you may be sure,” Scrounge answered. “But there is still more to this story. The story of what is about to happen to you.”
Tristan could do little but stare back at Scrounge. He desperately missed the familiar, comforting weight of his weapons across his back. Without them he felt very vulnerable, and alone. But even if he had them back, he wasn’t sure he would be able to kill the assassin—not in his still-weakened state. Dark edges of gloom began to press in on the corners of his mind, but he pushed them back. He cringed even more as he watched Scrounge draw the ceremonial dagger from his belt. The blade’s sharp edges were still coated in yellow powder.
“If you’re going to kill me, then why don’t you just do it?” Tristan snarled. “Why bore me with all this talk?”
“Because I don’t plan to kill you.” Scrounge smiled, showing his dark, decaying teeth. “Remember, the wanted poster said dead or alive. I plan to take you back alive. Wounded, but alive. You see, there is something about the stalker’s poison you do not know. Even though your health is improving, another wound, even one of dried stalker fluid such as still coats Wigg’s dagger, will bond with and reenergize the traces of poison remaining in your system—resulting in not only another series of convulsions and ultimately death, but first causing almost instantaneous unconsciousness. And this time, it may be days before you reawaken. While you are unconscious, I shall return you to Tammerland. To Bargainer’s Square, to be exact. The consuls will surface, paying me my reward, and they will leave you in your litter, letting you die slowly while the good citizens of Eutracia take their abuse of you. It should be most entertaining. In fact, I plan to stay and watch. But by then I shall be a much wealthier man, of course.”
Tristan’s breath left his lungs in a rush. The prospect of another round of convulsions, this time their outcome certain, shook him to the core. Dying, foaming at the mouth like some rabid animal in a cage, while the populace of Tammerland cheered it on. The very people he had risked his life to protect, over and over again. He tried to mask his feelings.
“But why?” he argued back gamely. “Why would the consuls do this? I’ve caused them no harm.”
“The answers are simple, though I will not tell you all of it,” Scrounge sneered. “For I value not only my head, but also the reward I am about to collect. However, this much of it I will say—if the consuls can be seen as the ones of the craft responsible for bringing in the traitorous prince, they will also appear to the populace as the new saviors of the nation. The help such a revelation would afford them in their efforts to rule would prove immeasurable.” He grinned widely. “I’m sure you won’t mind being poisoned again, dear prince? You seemed to enjoy it so much the first time.”
Scrounge slapped his free hand against his knee with outright glee, laughing loudly. “Who knows?”
he asked. “I may even become the one viewed as the hero. Perhaps even as honorable! An unusual turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?”
“How did you get the dagger?” Tristan asked, his mind racing as he tried to buy time.
Scrounge smiled. “Convenient, is it not, that Ragnar could not take it with him where he is gone?” he said happily. “But he is quite dead, and I liberated the dagger from all that remained of him: a pile of clothing and a great pool of blood.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Simple logic,” Scrounge answered, his laughter finally fading. “I guessed that you might be saved by the wizards. And that you would insist on doing the right thing—the honorable thing—by your son’s body, by bringing the remains to your family plot. I have been living here, in these woods, waiting for your return ever since the battle.”
“If all this is true, then why didn’t you just poison me while I was still unconscious?” Tristan asked. “It would have saved me the trouble of killing you.”
Scrounge’s face darkened. He stood, unstrapped the crossbow from his arm, and tossed it in the snow near his horse. The broadsword followed. Looking smug, he faced Tristan holding only Wigg’s dagger. Given Tristan’s condition, it was apparently all he thought he would need.
“The crossbow and the broadsword are far too blunt for the work I plan,” he said menacingly. “As I said, I only intend to wound you, and using those less precise weapons might cause a nasty, undesirable accident. But as to why I didn’t do this before, well, the truth is that I wanted to see the look in your eyes, dear prince. The look in the eyes of one who has never gone hungry. The look in the eyes of one who needed only to snap his fingers to receive the finest of everything, or merely to beckon to the most beautiful women of the realm, only to have them so willingly fall into his bed.” He paused for a moment, raising the shiny yellow-tinged blade of Wigg’s ceremonial dagger higher.
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