Authors: Brock E. Deskins
Victor feinted left then right, his sword thrusting forward quicker than a snake’s tongue. Garran leaned away and swiped at the jabs.
“You tire yourself out slapping at attacks never meant to hit you. That’s the difference between a proper swordsman and a man-child playing at being a true fighter,” Victor taunted.
“All these years, and you still want to lecture me. This is a duel, not a sparring match. I’m not your student any longer, and I haven’t been for years.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This is your final lesson, and maybe your death will actually teach you something.”
Garran circled around a stack of seed, putting it between him and Victor. “There’s one flaw in your syllabus.”
Victor grinned. “What’s that?”
“I can’t die.”
“You fancy yourself immortal now?”
Garran shook his head. “Heaven won’t have me, and hell is afraid to take me. You mortals are stuck with me forever.”
“You are definitely the herpes of humanity.”
Victor lunged forward, his sword flying in a dizzying array. Garran backpedaled, swinging his twin weapons with all his skill, barely able to dodge or intercept the myriad attacks that seemed to be everywhere at once.
Garran leapt away, desperate to put some distance between him and Victor’s onslaught. He hacked a sack of grain, sending the seeds spraying into Victor’s face. Victor shielded his eyes with his free hand and barged ahead, Garran’s obvious panic fueling his confidence.
Finally breaking free of Victor’s attack, Garran went on the offensive, his blades a whirling tornado of death. He brought both weapons held parallel across Victor’s midriff, sent one high and one low, then one flashing down while swiping back across with the other. Despite the confusing mash of attacks, Victor was able to block or avoid nearly all of them.
Garran leapt and pushed off the top of a stack of bagged grain, twisted in midair, and slashed at Victor’s exposed neck. Victor raised his shoulder and accepted the stroke. Fire erupted as Garran’s reaping blade cut through leather, skin, and muscle. Blood soaked his shirt to his elbow, but Garran’s seemingly successful attack left him vulnerable to a skilled fighter who was not afraid to trade a relatively minor wound for victory.
Victor’s sword flashed as Garran flew past his head. Garran yelped when he felt the sharp blade part the flesh over his abdomen. He struck the floor shoulder first and rolled to a sitting position. Garran dropped his left reaping blade and slapped a hand over his bleeding stomach. The wound was long and deep, but it was not instantly fatal. Victor meant to correct that.
Garran scooted away as Victor stalked forward with his sword held for a killing stroke, his eyes glinting at the prospect. Garran’s feet slipped on the scattered seed covering the floor as he shoved himself away, scooting on his rump across the floor until his back fetched up against one of the stout timbers supporting the roof.
“Save me the trouble of looking for Adam, and I’ll make your death swift,” Victor said as he advanced.
Garran held up a bloody hand to forestall Victor’s blade. “Wait, I’ll tell you…when I get to hell!”
Garran’s reaping blade slashed at a rope running down the beam just over his head. The rope parted, releasing the pallet of grain hoisted high overhead. Victor, sensing more than seeing the trap veiled by Adam’s god-touched magic, smirked as he stepped back out of the way.
The stack of seed crashed to the floor, but instead of the sacks bursting apart when they struck, they plunged straight through. The floorboards, sawn through the night before by Garran, pivoted on the floor joist beneath them. The distant end of the boards whipped up and forward like the arm of a catapult, burying the steel spikes Garran had hammered through them into Victor’s back.
Victor let out a strangled grunt as he staggered forward, partially propelled by the striking floorboards. He teetered near the edge where the heavy bags had fallen through, clumsily stepping onto the burst bags mostly filling the hole. Knowing that the fight was unwinnable, Victor reached into a pocket and hurled a pair of flash bombs at Garran’s feet.
The ceramic orbs shattered. Garran raised a hand to shield his eyes and took several staggered steps back. The fiery bursts ignited the seed and dust, increasing the effect of the small explosions. In the few seconds it took Garran to regain his sight, Victor was gone.
Garran leaned against the wood pillar and sank back down, coughing out the smoke filling the room and his lungs. Several small fires illuminated the area and spread quickly.
Adam emerged from behind a stack of grain and rushed forward. “Garran, we need to get out of here! Where’s Victor?”
Garran pulled a flask from his vest pocket and tipped it to his lips. “Ran off.”
Adam grabbed for the flask. “What are you doing? The alcohol will just make your bleeding worse!”
“Yeah, but I won’t care nearly as much.”
“Stop it! Give me that!”
Garran slapped at Adam’s reaching hands as he chugged the contents.
“You are goddam idiot, you know that?” Adam snapped.
“I think it’s pronounced awesome.”
Adam slipped the pack from his shoulder, found a shirt to tear into bandages, and did his best to bind Garran’s horrible wound. “Can you walk?”
“To the bar? Hell yes.”
“No, you dumbass, to a physic!”
“Good idea. Bars don’t usually carry laudanum, especially ones in this prudish damned country.”
“Goddam idiot,” Adam muttered as he helped Garran to his feet.
“Awesome,” Garran slurred.
Garran and Adam pushed their mounts to reach Glidden before nightfall. Glidden was a middling-sized town sharing a border with Opatia. While smaller than Cimmaron, it was still bustling with activity as they rode in just as the sun kissed the horizon. Garran led them to an inn near the border side of town. Raucous noise drifted out of the doors and into the streets.
Adam sidestepped to avoid two men staggering out of the door and into the street. “Is this the best place to stay in town? It seems a bit rowdy.”
“Glidden is an oasis, almost an embassy for the people of Opatia and Arnao, but we are still in Arnao. Victor might be out of commission for a while, but he will be back, and The Guild still wants you. It’s best if we stick to places where we are less likely to be noticed.”
The sounds and odors of too many men and too much free-flowing alcohol assaulted Adam’s senses as they entered.
“Find us a table, and I’ll get a room for the night,” Garran instructed.
Adam nodded, peered over the heads of the crowd, and made for one of the few unoccupied tables. Garran pushed his way up to the bar, and after several attempts, gained the barman’s attention. He beckoned the barkeep closer and spoke into the man’s ear. The bartender returned a moment later with two glasses of whiskey, reached beneath the counter, and slid two paper packets onto the bar.
Garran paid the man a sizable sum and poured the contents of one of the packets into one of the glasses. He sized up the man standing next to him and gave him a nod.
“You look like the kind of guy who likes to have fun. How would like to earn a little coin?”
The man glared at Garran and his face darkened. “I ain’t a fancy boy no matter how much you want to pay.”
Garran rolled his eyes. “No, it’s nothing like that. You see that kid sitting over there at the table—the one who looks like he’s one ovary shy of being a woman?”
“What of him? I still ain’t banging a man no matter how fetching he looks.”
“I want you to pick a fight with him in about ten minutes.”
The man leaned back and eyed Garran. “Why?”
Garran lifted his shirt and exposed the scabbed-over slash held together with sutures. “Him and I have been in some real scrapes, and we are certain to see a few more. He is a virgin in every way imaginable, and I need some help manning him up. The kid isn’t a coward, but he needs to learn how to ‘put
them on the table’, and I have yet to be able to do that on my own.”
The man nodded. “All right. Ten argats if I win, fifteen if I lose.”
“Fair enough, just try not to do any real harm.”
“He does look like a bit of a pansy. What if he won’t fight me?”
“Just say something disparaging about his mother or sister. That ought to do it.”
Garran weaved his way through the tables and patrons and sat in the chair opposite Adam. He set the drinks down and slid one across the table.
“What is it?” Adam asked.
“It’s good. Try it.”
“I told you, I don’t drink alcohol. It is against my vows.”
“Come on, we just defeated the third best agent in the world.”
“I know the first is Gregor, but who is the second? Are we going to have to fight him too?”
“Again with the jokes. For once in your life, pull the stick out of your ass and bend the rules just a little. It will be good for you.”
Adam stared at the glass. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Because it is. This is something worth celebrating, and you were a big part of it. I want you to share it with me.”
Adam picked up the glass. “I didn’t do much.”
“You did plenty. You were the difference between victory and me being dead. Drink up!”
Garran downed his drink and stared expectantly at Adam. Adam sighed and took a sip. The drink tasted strongly of cinnamon and honey, but the alcohol in it still held a powerful kick.
“Come on, it isn’t tea! Drink it like a man!”
With a resigned sigh, Adam tilted the glass up and emptied it into his mouth. He shuddered then gasped as the brew warmed his innards.
“Gah, it feels like my insides are burning!”
“That’s the feeling of your testicles dropping. Congratulations, you’re almost a man.”
“Almost? What else do I have to do?”
Garran winked. “We’ll see what the night holds. Wait here; I’ll go get us another.”
“No, I’ve had more than enough,” Adam said to Garran’s back to no avail.
Garran approached the bar and nodded to his conspirator. The man stood and made his way to where Adam was sitting. Adam sat with his palms pressed against the table, fighting the heat spreading through his body instead of ebbing, as it should have been doing. He was beginning to sweat profusely, and his heart rate was accelerating. He felt a presence nearby and looked up.
“Can I help you?” Adam asked the man looming over him.
“My mistake. From the bar, you looked like a woman, but if your sister ain’t around, maybe you’ll do in a pinch.”
Adam fought back the unexpected rage building like a volcano ready to explode. “If you knew who my sister was, you would hold your tongue unless you are as stupid as you look.”
“If I knew who your sister was, I’d perch her on that bar and let my tongue fly while your mother knelt beside me making good use of hers.”
Garran watched Adam leap to his feet and strike the barfly with a surprisingly powerful right cross. The man stumbled several steps back before falling onto his backside. He shook his head and rolled to his feet. Adam stood a few paces before him, his hands held up in a fighter’s stance.
The man ducked his head and charged like a bull. He barreled into Adam with his shoulder, wrapped his arms around him, and drove him back until they collided with a support beam. Adam brought his fists down onto the man’s back and shoulders, but the collision with the beam knocked the air from his lungs and stunned him.
The man brought his head back and snapped it forward, further dazing Adam with a headbutt. He reeled back farther and whipped his head forward for a second, more powerful blow. Adam dipped down and slipped beneath the arms pinning him in place. The man’s forehead collided with the post with a thud that made the onlookers gasp and wince in sympathy.
Adam spun around the man, who was now holding himself up with the timber’s support, and delivered a series of punches to his kidneys. When the man’s knees began to buckle, Adam grabbed a fistful of greasy hair and drove his head into the post until he collapsed and stopped moving. He felt a hand land on his shoulder and spun, unbridled fury raging in his eyes.
“Whoa, easy there, killer,” Garran said. “How are you feeling?”
Adam took several deep breaths and glared around the tavern, daring anyone to challenge him with his eyes. “I feel good! I feel powerful! I feel…like a man!”
Garran handed him a glass. “Good! Now drink this.”
Adam snatched the glass and downed the drink. He roared like a beast as the alcohol burned its way down his throat and into his stomach and hurled the glass against the wall behind the bar.
Garran clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing great, kid, but you still have a little ways to go yet before you call yourself a man.”
Adam staggered, his vision wavering. “What’s next?”
Garran gave him a gentle push. “This way, I’ll show you.”
***
Reto Langley, the Minster of highways and tolls, selected a nightshirt from his enormous wardrobe and draped it over his body. He looked down and grimaced, noting that the middle did not hang freely, and he could no longer see his toes without leaning forward. It was but another problem he would have to deal with, but certainly not tonight.
It was late, and he was exhausted. Ever since Remiel completed his damned road, his workload had compounded far beyond what he had endured when he was but a lowly commissioner trying to climb his way through the ranks in order to reach what was supposed to be a period of schmoozing for kickbacks and bribes. If he had known betraying Remiel to The Guild meant he would have to start doing real work again, he might well have reconsidered his treasonous actions. At least The Guild rewarded him far better for his labors.
Reto turned, eagerly anticipating the soft bed and layers of warm blankets awaiting him. That empty bed warmed only by the hot coals smoldering inside the long-handled, metal contraption placed between the sheets by one of his servants. Perhaps it was time to put his philandering ways behind him and get a proper wife. He was reaching the end of his forties after all, and people were beginning to laugh at him behind his back.
He raised his foot, but it failed to carry him forward toward his bed. Unable to draw breath, his first thought was that he was having a heart attack. It took him a full second to realize that the constricture was not in his chest but around his throat, and in that moment, he understood the full magnitude of what was happening.
The rumors that had been floating around about the deaths and disappearance of several members of parliament and notable city officials were true, and the assassin had chosen him this night for his latest victim. His bedroom vanished as his sight fled, replaced by a field of red receding into blackness. In the moments before his death, he mourned the fact that he would never get to enjoy the fruits of his betrayal. His last thought was for the dead and the souls that were surely waiting to torment him in hell. It had all been such a waste.
Aniston held the bulk of Lord Langley’s weight against his bent leg as he guided him to the floor. He dragged the man’s corpse into the shadowy recesses of the wardrobe from which he had lain in wait. The longer it took someone to find him the better. With the information he had recovered from Reto’s office and study, his complicity was beyond question. It also pointed him toward another traitor.
With stacks of incriminating evidence, Aniston had given in to the Queen’s desires and returned to carrying out the executions. He did so with reluctance, but if the god-touched crone was telling the truth, he did not have a great deal of time left. He had to do what he could while he was still able. In a few months, he would have to flee, assuming Gregor did not catch on to his dealings and kill him before then.
He rubbed his hands against his trouser legs in a futile attempt to wipe away the blood his eyes could not see. He had begun doing that a lot over the weeks. He knew in those moments that he was not cut out to be a field agent. He should have set his sights on being an analyst. Perhaps Garran had known that which he was only just now realizing, and that his betrayal had been an act of mercy to save him from what he was now experiencing. He shook the thought away. No, Garran’s motives were always selfish and only intended to help further his goals. Garran needed him to get kicked out of school and work for The Guild so he would have an inside man.
Aniston climbed out of the window and clambered onto the roof. A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. He ducked low and twisted toward the motion, his hand on his sword, his feet ready to hurl him off the roof. It was a chimney, and the movement had been a plume of grey smoke against the black sky.
He padded across the roof and dropped to the first floor porch at the rear of the manor before leaping to the ground. Aniston hunkered down inside the concealing darkness of the porch before striding briskly into the street. Most influential people who resided within the city lived in this district, so he did not have far to go. The night was still relatively young, and he wanted to get this over with. He would tell Evelyn that this was the last night for the executions. It was getting far too dangerous, and after he delivered her justice this night, others would surely be on heightened alert. She could deal with them herself when she reclaimed the throne for her son.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up once again. An untrained person would stop and spin around out of fear in hopes of validating their anxiety, but he was a professional and kept walking without breaking stride or looking back. He turned down an alley and quickened his steps for moment before slowing. If someone were following, they would not see his haste and might sacrifice their stealth to catch back up when they saw he had gotten farther ahead.
Aniston did this twice more, breaking into a jog after rounding a corner and ducked into a shadowy alcove. He waited, breathing through a folded kerchief to prevent the cool night air from turning his breath into billowing, white, puffy clouds of fog.
After ten minutes of standing in the cold, Aniston decided that his paranoia was getting the best of him. He emerged from his shadowy cocoon and made for the home of his next target. His nagging suspicions failed to abate, but he could not find a hint of their validation. He chalked it up to nerves.
Lord Monte Torin resided in a home similar to that of Lord Langley but with a small lawn and garden surrounding it instead of butting directly against sidewalks and cobblestone streets. Aniston had of course studied the exterior of the manor for days, and as he had noted during his previous surveillance, there were surprisingly few guards given Lord Torin’s status and wealth. Lord Langley had nearly tripled his armed staff in recent weeks, but he had put none of them inside his bedroom as a properly fearful man might. That modesty and deep-rooted sense of propriety had cost him his life.