“So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”
“Can’t help it. I am no helpless child.”
Sef stroked at his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.
“Our foes aren’t so helpless, either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”
Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.
“You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”
Sef grunted.
“Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”
Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.
“Did I? But my advisors insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”
“Bastard.”
Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.
“Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.
“That’s the hope.”
As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now plain and bare wood, without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time, he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded out as if a dragon let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course, it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.
After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in, as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who died that day flashed before his eyes, and he remembered them all, joining the ghostly choir that wailed in his nightmares. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for themselves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.
Victor tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Perhaps he needed to have the executioners use a gag on them. The only other option was to not be present, but he refused. He might not swing the blade, but he was the reason for their deaths, and his pride demanded he be in their presence. Cowardly hiding might make it easier, but that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted it to be hard. He wanted every death to weigh on him, despite what he showed others. The final moment, when there was no one left to give to the executioner’s axe, would be that much sweeter for it.
The night dragged on. Victor’s thoughts turned to his parents, of brighter memories in his childhood. Lost in them, he almost didn’t hear the soft clink of armor hitting the floor. Almost. Victor tensed, not once doubting his instincts and the danger they cried. It might have just been his guard shifting positions, but it didn’t sound right. It almost sounded like a guard had chosen to sit down, something he’d never, ever do.
His sword was beside him on the floor, just within reach. Trying to make little noise, he reached down and lifted it still in its scabbard. As the door crept open a crack, he managed to slide it underneath his blankets. Victor half-closed his eyes so that his intruder might believe him asleep. With the smallest movements possible, he held the hilt with one hand and pulled the scabbard down with the other. Didn’t want to let them know, didn’t want to scare them off, especially if there was more than one.
The door opened wider. Victor clenched his jaw to prevent any giveaway. Stay calm, he told himself. Just wait. Still, he quickened his pace with the scabbard. The blade of his sword was halfway exposed, but it’d be cumbersome to use in the cramped quarters. Stupid, stupid, why didn’t he just keep his dagger with him instead?
Two men stepped inside, each one carrying a small blade. Victor choked down his fury at his guards for letting such things pass by their scrutiny. They’d slacked on their precautions because of how many came and went, he had no doubt. Victor waited until they stepped all the way in, and were just starting to move to opposite sides of his bed, before he struck. In a single motion he freed his sword from his scabbard and flung aside the blankets, giving him freedom of movement.
If the men were surprised, they showed no sign of it. Victor lashed out with his sword, a long arc that had far more reach than they did with their daggers. The one on the right tried to block, but he lacked both the strength and weapon to do it. Victor’s sword bounced off, angling it higher so the sword hit his neck instead of his chest. It hit his neck bones with a wet chop. Victor tried to swing back to the other side, to where the second thief was lunging, but his blade had caught between two vertebrae. Panicking, Victor let go and fell back, narrowly avoiding a slash. He rolled away and off the bed, trying to gain some distance.
“There’s no hope for you,” the assassin said, his voice a whisper.
The crossbow bolt thudding into his neck seemed to say otherwise. The assassin slumped to the bed and bled out on the sheets as Victor scrambled to his feet. A third man stood at the door, miniature crossbow in hand. He was an older man, and wore the plain browns of a commoner.
“Friend,” the man said when Victor reached for his sword.
“That so?” Victor asked, putting a foot on the dead man’s head so he could yank his blade free. “Then who are you, friend?”
“No lie, milord. I’m here to help. My name’s Gart. Antonil put me here to protect you.”
The light was dim, but Victor saw Gart pull down his shirt, revealing a city guard’s tunic underneath as proof.
“Antonil’s keeping his eye on me, is that it?” Victor asked.
“You expressed concern with the families staying here. He thought it best to help keep an eye on them.” Gart nodded at the two bodies. “Caught them sneaking toward the stairs when they thought everyone asleep. Killed the guards at the stairs by your door. Real pros.”
Victor rolled over the one at his feet using his heel, then looked him over.
“Any idea the guild?” Victor asked.
“Not really. Not like they’d have been foolish enough to send people with colors or tattoos identifying them.”
It made sense, but was still frustrating. Standing, he looked to Gart and frowned at the crossbow.
“How’d you sneak that past my guards?”
Gart stood up straight.
“I told them it was with the authority of the King, and that they were to tell no one, not even you. If it makes you feel better, your men were most displeased, and I feared they might inform you despite my warnings.”
Victor felt his anger growing. Not only had two men come into his place of safety and nearly killed him, but Antonil was spying on him as well, and hiding things from him?
“It’s no longer safe here,” Victor said, grabbing his armor. “I told Antonil bringing in civilians would put me at risk. I told him! They will not stay here, not any longer. And much as I owe you, Gart, I still resent that your presence was kept hidden from me.”
“Just following my orders, milord.”
“I know. It’s those orders I plan on questioning.”
Armor on, sword buckled to his waist, he stepped into the hall. His guards lay slumped against the wall, throats opened and tunics stained with blood. Victor closed their eyes with his fingers, offered a silent word of thanks to the men who had given their lives to protect him. And then he was moving on, Gart in tow.
“Summon your guard, and have them clean up this mess,” Victor told him. “After that, start gathering the people here and bring them to the castle. If Antonil wants them kept safe, and wants to position men in secret to guard them, then let him take their responsibility in full. I need no more assassins in my bedchambers.”
“Milord, I’m not sure if I should do that until…”
