Twisting his cloaks, Haern hoped to confuse him, but as the pain bit deep into his shoulder he knew he’d only partially succeeded. He continued his spin, using his cloaks to obstruct their view of him. It’d only gain him a moment, an extra step closer, but if they were staying defensive, hoping to down him with arrows instead of blades…
He pulled out of the spin, putting every bit of his strength into his jump. He crashed into the closest, pure luck keeping the thief’s dagger from impaling him. As they hit the ground, Haern twisted so his elbow slammed against the man’s throat. The Serpent spewed blood. Before the other could respond, he lashed out, knocking the crossbow off aim. The third bolt struck a tree, its dull thud music to Haern’s ears. Without a melee weapon, his opponent had no chance. Haern’s assault was wild and brutal, with no hint of defense. Two slashes took out the man’s throat, and a third across his hamstring brought him down to the dirt to die.
Finally given a chance to breathe, he cursed and grabbed the bolt in his shoulder. It was deep in his flesh, and a quick glance at the man’s quiver showed barbed heads he couldn’t dare pull out. Gritting his teeth, he recited a mantra he’d been trained as a child, one to help him ignore the effects of pain. He clutched the shaft tighter. Another recital, followed by a deep exhalation. He pushed the bolt through and out the other side.
He screamed.
Tossing the bolt, he leaned against a tree and struggled to catch his breath. It didn’t look like the bolt was poisoned-another lucky break. Evidently the Serpents hadn’t thought their upcoming ambush dangerous enough to spend the time and coin applying some. He looked to the wagon, curious to the state of affairs. He couldn’t see those on the other side, but he saw one Serpent lying dead upon the road, his body curiously aflame. That left four alive at the most. So far none appeared to have detected his ambush, which was all the best. He needed another moment to recover.
But then that moment vanished, for the wagon caught fire.
“Shit,” he muttered. One of the Serpents must have tossed oil and a torch. Black smoke billowed to the air, blocking nearly all his view of the events. Knowing the thieves would be rushing to cut down the survivors, he charged. Pain spiked up his entire left arm, and the sword hung limp in his hand as he ran. He’d block with it if necessary, but it seemed the killing would be restricted to his right.
A figure crawled out of the smoke toward him, a red-haired woman in white.
“Run to the trees!” he shouted to her, not stopping. He swerved about her and leapt straight into the smoke. The heat was tremendous, but so far the fire was restricted to the outer covering. No survivors remained within. He saw a gap in the tarpaulin and leapt.
Just before he landed and rolled, he had a split-second to survey the fight and react. Four Serpents formed a half-circle around the wagon, easily identifiable with their green cloaks. Three men faced them, one in yellow robes wielding a staff, another in gray parrying with two maces, and the third a portly man holding back with a single club to protect himself. There was something tremendously familiar about the way the man with the maces fought, but Haern had no time. He rolled closer to the fat man, no doubt the caravan’s driver or owner. He seemed the least skilled, unable to fend off the single Serpent who weaved side to side.
Haern kicked out of his roll, using his good arm to run the Serpent through. Their collision sent them both tumbling, and Haern screamed as he felt something hard strike his wounded shoulder, and screamed again as a sharp pain pierced his stomach. He rolled off the corpse and saw blood, his blood, covering the thief’s dagger. This time his collision had not been so lucky. Struggling to stand, he turned to the others, his vision a blur of pain, smoke, and tears. One of the two fighting the man in gray had pulled off to address the new threat, and Haern put his swords in position and tried to feign confidence.
His opponent dual-wielded shortswords, and he chopped with both, hoping to overpower Haern. Not a bad strategy, given his condition. He crossed his swords and blocked, the nerves in his wounded shoulder shrieking in protest at the collision. Twice, three times he chopped, as if Haern were a wall to be broken down. The third time Haern’s left arm gave out, and he twisted to avoid the deathblow. He feigned a retreat, but then instead kicked his right foot out, tripping the Serpent. He slashed with his good arm, but it wasn’t lethal, just a cut across the thief’s chest. It bought him time, and this time he did retreat. Blood flowed across his shirt and down his pants. He felt its warmth along his left arm as well. He coughed, and he hoped it was only the smoke, not something worse, that caused it.
His opponent, infuriated by the cut, charged like a mad animal. Haern braced his legs and met it head on, just barely slapping the thrusts aside. Again they collided, but this time he was better positioned. His knee slammed into his attacker’s groin, and he let his wounded arm absorb most of the impact. When the Serpent collapsed to the ground, Haern practically fell upon him. One sword dropped from his left hand, but he stabbed with his right and leaned all his weight upon it. The blade pierced the thief’s belly and bit into the dirt, pinning him there. He thrashed for a moment as he bled out, then went still.
Haern only felt marginally better than the man he killed. The collision had torn the cut on his arm further open, as well as angering the arrow wound. His stomach still ached. He didn’t know how deep it went, but it felt horrendous. He struggled to stand, but couldn’t. At last he yanked out his sword and fell to his back, his breath coming in hurried gasps. So much for leaving the guilds a message. So much for inspiring terror. He’d killed five, only five…
The sounds of fighting ended. His head swam. A man leaned over him, a face he recognized from his past. Another joined it, younger, and female. He was delusional now, he realized. How else to explain why two people, one dead, one missing, spoke down to him, their voices muffled as if speaking through water? How else to explain why Senke was telling him to hold on? Or how Delysia was tearing at his clothes to see the wound in his stomach? He felt pressure there, and then his vision turned yellow, all shapes outlined in red. Sound faded, and then he saw nothing at all.
9
S he knew Garrick would want an explanation, but Veliana delayed seeing him as long as possible. The longer he wondered and worried, the better. She wanted him to feel belittled, to realize her contempt for him. Anything else might make him think things were different. At last one of their young guild rats found her at a tavern on the other side of the city and informed her of Garrick’s request.
“Tell him I’m on my way,” she said, flicking the boy a copper piece. “But I still plan on finishing my drink first.”
She nursed it for another half-hour. By then several men arrived, all wearing the dark gray of the Ash Guild. They were recent recruits to the guild, men she realized she knew very little about. Garrick’s men, then. Again she cursed herself for being so blind to the man’s ambition. Of course she’d vetted them, knew their names, but that was the limit of her influence upon them.
“Garrick’s waiting,” said one. He was named Gil, if she remembered correctly. Why had she let him in? He looked like a dog had shit out a muscular version of itself that happened to walk on two legs.
“Surely he has more important problems,” she said, draining the last of her glass.
“Than insubordination? No, Veliana, he doesn’t.”
She shot him a wink as she stood.
“Lead on, boys. Three to one to take me to the dance? I feel honored.”
“Shut it.”
It was an hour until sunset, and in the orange glow Veliana felt exposed wearing their cloaks as they traversed across the city. They were deep in Spider territory, and instead of trying to travel through the less profitable outskirts, they marched together through its very center. She saw a few men in the softer gray cloaks, but they did not accost them, nor hail for an explanation. Strange.
Deathmask was already waiting in the chamber when Veliana arrived. Garrick sat on his cushions, smoking as usual. He looked incredibly pleased, which threw her off. She expected him to be ranting and raving. And why was Deathmask there? Was she about to witness another attempt on his life? Not counting herself or Deathmask, twelve men gathered about. All were armed. She felt her worry grow. What if this wasn’t for the stranger they’d invited? What if this was for her execution?
Her hands brushed the daggers at her hip. If it came to that, she’d take Garrick down with her, no matter the
