More guards shouted, this time closer. The tent flap flung open. In stepped Zusa. Blood covered her wrappings. In her hand, held out like a gift, was the head of Yoren Kull.
“Well done,” Alyssa said with a smile. Guards gathered at the entrance to the tent. Alyssa pressed the tip of her dagger against Theo’s throat and then turned to the men.
“Step inside, he dies,” she told them. A quick nod from Theo ensured they obeyed. Despite her ragged appearance, her mussed hair, and her dirty face, Alyssa felt like herself once more, only stronger and wiser than when her father had cast her into the cold cells below their household.
“Tell us your orders, Lady Gemcroft,” Zusa said.
Alyssa looked back to Theo, her smile growing wider.
“Mercenaries,” she said. “They work only for coin.”
And then she thrust the dagger. With their only hopes of payment dead, either stabbed or beheaded, the mercenaries switched allegiance with practiced ease as Zusa cried out the wealth of the Gemcroft family line.
“You have your army,” Zusa said, sliding up next to her moments later.
“Because of you,” Alyssa said, taking Zusa’s hand and then kissing it in mid-curtsey.
Her beautiful face no longer hidden by veil and wrappings, Zusa smiled and curtseyed in return.
26
T he outer limits of the Kensgold were filled with sellswords and the poor. The food and drink radiated outward from the many banquet tables and kegs. Thren had debated a more thorough disguise than his low hood, dirtied face, and slight limp, but decided against it. With near a thousand faces swarming about the area he’d need a fraction of his skill to go unnoticed. He could have stripped naked and still struggled to gain attention considering the amount of sex going on everywhere. No doubt the whores would be sore for weeks, but even the ugliest clutched gold tightly within their fingers.
At the base of the two hills the parked wagons formed a perimeter, their gaps lined with mercenaries. Thren did not challenge their ring, instead joining the crowd that lingered nearby in the hope of catching the more private and privileged festivities. Beside him was a hastily constructed wooden platform kept empty by a couple of Connington’s soldiers. Thren didn’t know its purpose but assumed some sort of loud singer or shameless erotic dancing troupe. He didn’t care to find out, either. Where he stood was the southernmost portion of the larger hill, exactly where he’d told the Wolf Guild to meet him.
His patience was nearing its end when thirty minutes later a man in a brown cloak and gray shirt approached.
“You stand well enough for one with a limp,” the man said.
“The knee don’t like bending,” Thren replied, feigning an Omnish accent. “What right you got to be asking?”
“The right of a wolf,” the man said, flashing him a toothy grin. His makeup was heavy, but Thren recognized those sharpened canine teeth.
“Your disguise trumps my own,” Thren said.
“I was to be here longer than you,” said Cynric, guildmaster of the Wolves. A pungent dye covered his gray hair with a layer of brown, the dirt on his face hiding his pale skin and ritual scars.
For a moment each held their tongue, staring up the hill at the elite of the Trifect. Neither sensed watching eyes or attentive ears around them so they continued.
“I’ve thirty men throughout the crowds,” Cynric said. “They await my howl. I’ve counted the number of guards, ignoring those on the outer ring. Over four hundred protect the main hill, and another two hundred the smaller. Our claws our sharp, but they do little against steel armor. I hope you have a better plan.”
Thren nodded, hearing nothing he hadn’t expected.
“The plan is in motion, Wolf. We do not attack them here. Your men are a diversion, nothing more.”
Cynric chuckled.
“I had thought as much. We played the fool for you. Care to share the real plan? I’d hate for my Wolves to miss out on the bloodshed.”
“Once the Kensgold nears its end, you will join me in assaulting the Gemcroft household. Guildsmen will have already taken over their estate and set up traps throughout. We will seal their exit once they realize the trap is sprung and try to flee.”
“They’ll be like a wounded doe,” Cynric said.
“You and your hunting analogies,” Thren said, and he laughed in spite of himself.
Trumpets sounded from atop the hill. A steady procession of sellswords moved directly toward them, Connington in tow. From the west, mercenaries lifted a giant cage on poles from atop a wagon and brought it toward the stage.
“What is going on?” Thren asked, bracing himself. Because of the trumpets, the crowd had surged in his direction, packing it so tight that he’d have a devil of a time pushing his way out. Given their position, he and Cynric had a front row seat to whatever foolishness was about to begin.
“Connington has bragged about a special event planned to start the Kensgold,” Cynric explained, not even bothering to whisper. The chaos around them would drown out anything they said. “As to what, I don’t know. None of my men and women could find out through coin or flesh.”
Thren nodded, feeling uneasy. He didn’t like surprises, and even worse, he hated lacking a quick exit. Shoving aside a hundred bodies was no easy feat.
“Come, come,” he heard Leon Connington shout as he hobbled after his guards. Maynard and Laurie traveled with him, and at the sight Thren felt his heart jump. All three members, there in the clear.
“I don’t supposed you have a crossbow on you?” he asked Cynric. Sadly the man shook his head.
“Damn.”
The Trifect families stopped short of the stage far up the hill, keeping a good distance between them and the crowd. Mercenaries surrounded them, looking serious and stiff in their patchwork armor. Grunting from the weight, the group of sellswords placed the covered cage down in the center of stage. The crowd murmured, wondering what exotic creature might be captured within.
An old man approached the stage and held up his hands for silence. Thren recognized him as Leon’s advisor from the Potts family.
“This day, my Lord Connington brings a gift not to the Trifect but to you wonderful people of Veldaren!” the old man shouted. Those who hadn’t quieted before, did so now. The din lowered to a murmuring hush.
“Long they have stolen from you,” Potts continued. “Long they have made you cower and hide in fear of poison and blade. We have fought them for you, bled for you, and died for you.”
A few whistled, but not many. Given the sheer amount of free food and wine floating about, it would seem in bad taste to argue.
“What is going on here?” Thren hissed to Cynric.
“I told you, I don’t know,” the wolf master replied.
Potts turned back toward the hill and pointed. A procession of five men walked down from the pavilion. They wore plain brown robes, their heads and faces clean-shaven. Thin tattoos circled their necks and wrists before traveling upward like veins toward their eyes. Both guildmasters knew who they were immediately. They were the gentle touchers, Connington’s skilled masters of torture.
Thren felt his stomach drop as if full of lead. He suddenly knew who was within the cage.
“Damn them,” he whispered. “Gods-fucking-damn them.”
The five surrounded the cage and raised their hands. With a dramatic sweep of his arms, Potts ordered the cage opened. The gentle touchers yanked out the bolts from its sides. The cage collapsed, its walls coming apart like a broken child’s toy. Standing perfectly still, his body tied to a thick pole, was Will. The gentle touchers rushed forward, taking the pole and jamming it into a hole in the stage, securing it tight. Will looked exhausted but unharmed otherwise. He had been stripped naked but for a plain loincloth. His thick muscles tensed against the ropes binding his hands and feet.
“Will the Bloody,” Potts shouted. “The right hand of Thren Felhorn, the enforcer of the Spiders! We give him
