Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (13 page)

The warrior with the sword and dagger made a cut at Conn, who parried with his longer blade, then stepped to the man's right, out of range of the dagger in the soldier's left hand, and thrust his shortsword at the man's side. The Jarving twisted and tried to disengage his sword for a parry, but only managed to get his arm in the way, so instead of his side, the Aeransman's sword tore into his right arm. He grunted and dropped his weapon.

As the other two Jarvings rushed at him, Conn stepped away from his wounded foe, a slow smile spreading as he whittled down the odds. Suddenly, the Jarving with the sword and axe shimmered and flowed, and then there were three of him!

Cold sweat sprang up on his neck as Conn forced a curse through clenched teeth. How could he fight this sorcery? As he backed away from the ensorcelled trio of axemen, the other Jarving struck at his weapon, bringing his heavy sword down in a wide powerful blow on the forte of Conn's shortsword, smashing the weapon from his stinging fingers.

He backed away again, sweeping his long blade in a defensive arc, batting aside a cut from one of the many shimmering ensorcelled foes. He tried to get around the enemy flank, to get a good cut in at the big Jarving with the single sword, but the newly numerous enemy shifted smoothly around to block him. He parried another blow on his sword as he clawed for his dirk with his left hand.

* * *

Trilisean watched from the shadows as the sorcerer began to make passes in the air. His back was to her, not twenty feet away.

Easy as cheating a blind man at cards
, she thought, slipping a flat-handled throwing knife from her sleeve and taking aim between the man’s narrow shoulders.

As the dagger sped toward the Jarving sorcerer's back, there was a flash and it veered away a foot before striking him. The man spun to face this new threat, barking a phrase in some arcane language and casting his hands outward.

Kerra damn all wizards!
thought Trilisean, tucking and rolling forward instinctively as a gout of flame passed over her, scorching the wall where she had just stood.

* * *

Conn swept his sword in a frantic circular parry, trying to deflect two thrusts and sidestep a cut. His sword caught one Jarving blade but passed through the second, which struck his left hand. The phantom blade made no cut and drew no blood, but a cold pain spread from the point of contact and his hand hung limp, the hilt of the dirk slipping from his grip.

The three identical Jarvings smiled as they saw this. The big man and the wounded warrior a moment later when they realized what had happened.

How in the four hells do I fight this?
Conn wondered, wishing for the creature at the temple again.

* * *

As the heat of the flame passed over her, Trilisean rolled up to her feet, flipping a knife underhand at the sorcerer and springing off to his right. He flinched involuntarily as the blade flew at him, but hurled a second bolt of flame, narrowly missing the swift, shadowy form before him.

She watched intently as the second dagger struck the invisible shield. It too, glanced away, but the flash was weaker, and when the blade clattered to the cobbles, it seemed that the sorcerer was sharper in her vision, the details of his robes less dimmed by a shadow she hadn't noticed until it was absent.

Her leap brought her near a wall. As the wizard again pointed at her, she leapt up and kicked off it straight toward him.

A bolt of dark energy smacked into the wall, sizzling on the fog-dampened stone, but she was no longer there.

He flung another spell as the thief flew toward him, but it went high as she dropped to the street five feet from him. He danced backward, frantically chanting.

Trilisean, drawing on her training as an acrobat, ended her leap with a roll over the last few yards, then smoothly came up on one knee before the sorcerer, slipping a dagger up under his breastbone before tumbling past, spinning to face him with another blade drawn.

The sorcerer grunted, clutching at the blade still in his chest. His lips moved, but a trickle of blood rather than words of power came forth as he sank to his knees then slumped to the cobbles.

* * *

Conn switched from frantic defense to a desperate lunge, surprising the big swordsman and catching him in the chest with his point. The man grunted, but continued forward, slashing wildly.

Suddenly, the three mirrored Jarvings shimmered and flowed together. As the one resultant foe paused in confusion, Conn dropped to one knee beneath a slash from the wounded man and lashed out, cutting the leg out from under the Jarving with the axe.

“I have it!” shouted Trilisean, holding the sorcerer's satchel by its cut strap. “Let's go!”

Conn took stock. Two Jarvings were rolling on the street with bad leg wounds, two lay still, one faced him with a limply hanging right arm and a long knife in his left, but he seemed inclined more to defense than attack. The big man still came on slashing, but he was stumbling now and blood stained his tunic from the wound in his chest. As his breath hissed through clenched teeth, it brought bloody bubbles.

The Aeransman felt content to call it a day. He retreated, knocked aside a final blow from the big Jarving as the man wheezed toward him, then bolted off into the night.

* * *

Conn sat once more at the table in his school, raising an eyebrow at the steaming mug Trilisean set before him.

“This is what he said?”

She shrugged. “The healers I talked to had never heard of such a wound, but a loremaster I know says this should work. If the spell that created the wound exists, he said. He likes to hedge his bets.”

“I'll trust it then, as I feel confident that the spell exists.” He took the mug in his good hand and drank it, wincing at the bitter taste. “Thanks again, lass, for saving me back there.”

She brushed off the comment. “Least I could do.”

“What'd you do with the orb?”

“That loremaster I mentioned. He says he's going to try to see other libraries. If it works.”

“Bit of a skeptic, is he?”

“He reads a lot. And a lot of what's written is lies and exaggerations.” She shrugged. “So he claims. It's

harmless enough in his hands if it does work, and that should make him happy.”

“Is it safe in with him?”

“I doubt anyone could find anything in there, let alone steal it.”

He nodded, satisfied.

“What'd you get for it?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “He took it in exchange for finding that antidote. Don't look so shocked. I'd already sold it once.”

“Thanks again. I don't think I could've gotten out of that one on my own. I owe you.”

“Don't worry about it. You're too good a partner to lose. It'd take weeks to replace you.” She smiled. “And I do so enjoy having you owe me.”

The Gathering Storm

EMAIN II, BARON AND OVERLORD of Laimrig, reclined on a divan and accepted a cup of wine from the slave girl who knelt before him. Another removed his sandals and rubbed his feet while a third sat on a low stool and read from a scroll detailing the latest petitions to his court.

All three were young and beautiful, clad mostly in jewelry, scented oils and cosmetics, with an occasional garment of translucent silk, carefully designed to accent rather than conceal their charms.

Beyond the similarities of age and comeliness, each was very different.
Who needed more than one blonde?
the Baron felt,
when there was such a bounty of varied and wondrous young womanhood to be enjoyed.

In fact, he felt quite strongly, life would lose its meaning if he ever got so jaded as not to find a thrill in the forms of his harem. He frequently ordered changes in their costume and ornamentation to keep his ardor fresh. This evening he was quite excited because he was replacing one of his longest serving concubines.

Issa, well, didn't
bore
him exactly, but he had begun to feel a certain…predictability about her. Her mannerisms, her body, her techniques. He no longer felt the catch in his breathing when he thought of her, or when he saw her undress. No, it was time to replace her before he began to resent her.

He was not a cruel man. She would not be sold. In fact she could not, for as close as she had been to him for so long, she knew far too many secrets that his enemies could use. But, because he was not a cruel man, he would not have her eliminated. She would be married off to a member of his guard, a man he trusted. He even, being a magnanimous ruler, allowed her to choose from his officers. The girl would gain status, freedom, and a respectable husband, and the guardsman would gain a wife highly schooled in pleasing a man.

Yes, the Baron was a benevolent master. And as such, he would have the pleasure of choosing a new slave to take Issa's place. The merchant was to bring a selection of candidates along after dinner that evening.

He wondered if he should choose another redhead, to maintain balance in his bedroom, but decided not to be bound by preconceived notions. He would evaluate all of the new talent and make his choice then.

A wise ruler does well not to close off options before he must,
he thought. He reached out and tenderly stroked the cheek of the slave girl at his feet, smiling into her large, almond eyes before pulling her toward him.

* * *

Sergeant Niath of the City Watch strode into the dank, smoky alehouse, ducking his shaven head under the lintel. He crossed the room casually, acting as though he belonged there. As he passed, the conversations trailed off, leaving a spreading wake of silence behind him.

The watchman moved with confidence through the crowd of dangerous men. Cutthroats, thieves, pimps and enforcers made a point to study their mugs. He wore a steel buckler on his belt, the polished surface scratched and dented. It was balanced on the other hip by a heavy oaken truncheon, gouged and chipped at the business end. He made no move towards the weapons on his belt, however, confident that the cold gleam in his narrowed eyes would be more than armament enough to keep him safe. In other parts of town the blue tabard with the silhouette of the Sollych emblazoned in white might have been enough. Here he put more faith in his carriage.

The sergeant walked quietly toward a table where a thin, agitated man bent low over his cup, muttering to some colleagues. As the aura of silence that surrounded the sergeant reached the group, one of the others nudged the small man, who looked up with shifty eyes under lowered brows, saw the watchman and cursed.

Sergeant Niath stopped before the table and scratched his head.

“Fingers!” He beamed, as though seeing the weasely man was an unadulterated joy. “Just the man I was looking for. I think you could help me in a small matter.”

The man squirmed under the watchman's gaze, his eyes darting around the room. “Always happy to help the Watch, Sergeant. You know me.”

As he finished speaking, he heaved the table over, rolled backward off his stool and darted towards the door to the back room, weaving through the crowd.

Fingers raced through the kitchen and out the back door into a narrow alley, turned right and sprinted toward the main road. As he burst into the daylight of the main thoroughfare, a blinding pain exploded from his right knee and he pitched forward, raising his hand to protect his face from the cobbles.

A rough hand dragged him up by the back of his shirt and tossed him against a wall. His knee buckled and he slid down the wall, slumping to the cobbles. He leaned forward to clutch his throbbing knee, but the end of a truncheon against his breastbone pressed him back against the wall.

“Now, Fingers,” said the sergeant soothingly. “That wasn't very nice. You went and got wine on my uniform. You know how hard that is to get out. Not that you ever worry about wine stains.”

Fingers' only reply was a groan. The sergeant went on.

“You sold some jewelry. Jewelry that was taken from a murder victim. That kind of evidence could have you dancing the hemp jig by week's end.”

“I never killed nobody,” Fingers protested between moans.

“That I don't doubt.” Niath squatted on his haunches, lifting the thief's chin with the end of his club. “Not your style. But I can't have the wives of prominent merchants turning up dead. Looks bad. We need to hang somebody, just to show we care. Restore faith in the Watch. You know how it is.” He smiled. “Help me make up my mind who gets to hang.”

“I don't know nothin',” Fingers replied, trying to tear his eyes away.

“You don't know enough to steer clear of trouble, that's for certain.” The sergeant frowned in contemplation for a moment. “Why do they call you ‘Fingers,' I wonder? Could it be because you need them for your work?” He seized the man's right hand in his left, isolating the thief's last finger and slowly pressing it backwards with his thumb, “I wonder what they'd call you if you couldn't use them so well…

“Ahh! Wait, wait!” the thief said. “Don't do this. I'm paid up with the Watch.”

“Not with me.”

“I can tell you who! Sergeant Vorrick– “

“Fingers, I know this may come as a shock to someone in your line of work, but I don't care about anybody else's scams. You know what I want. I know that you know. And I know that you are a rat coward with a low pain threshold. Save us both some time and talk. Or don't.” He increased the pressure on the man's finger. “Your call.”

* * *

Conn set the kettle on the stove for tea. He had a few hours to kill before his evening class. They'd be working with staves tonight. He liked staves. You couldn't get much simpler, but they had reach and speed and were so versatile.

Even better, the evening classes were filled with working class students. The mercenary felt much more at ease there. During the day, when these people labored, he taught wealthy sons of nobles– and merchants aspiring to be nobles– how to use swords, generally dueling swords. It was refreshing to teach laborers and longshoremen how to use clubs, knives and staves. The pay wasn't as good, but he felt a few nights a week helped keep his fighting focus sharp, as opposed to his dueling focus. It also kept Ioresh, his apprentice, interested, which was a good thing, since if the boy got bored, he'd run off and join a mercenary band, which would be unhealthy for him, and irritating for Conn since he'd have to break in a replacement.

“I've decided you may buy me a drink.”

Conn turned at the voice. He was sure he had locked the door, not that it mattered. Trilisean paused just inside the hall. She wore a new outfit, all in muted, dark tones, the better to fade into the shadows, but all of costly fabric, well made and carefully tailored.

“In fact, I'll even buy you one back.”

“Business been good then, lass?” asked Conn.

“Very. Lots of contract jobs.” She pirouetted to display her new clothes, then hopped up, sat on his table and extended her legs, crossed at the ankle, to showcase her boots.

“Found a new cobbler,” she grinned, eyes sparkling. “Leather soft as butter. Like walking on a cloud. Treated with beeswax to keep your feet dry, and you can hardly see the dagger I hid in each one.”

“Good to know,” Conn replied, truly interested. He had spent enough time in the infantry to know the value of a really good pair of boots.

“And how've you been doing?” she asked. “You still seeing that barmaid?”

“Depends. Which was the last barmaid you remember?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you've found your type.”

“And you? Still hanging around with that minstrel?”

“Ah, no,” she sighed. “He was…less than faithful. Pity, really. Man had a silver tongue.”

“Knew he played the lute,” said Conn, fetching his cloak. “Never heard him sing.”

“Never said he did,” she replied. “How's business?”

“Very good,” he replied. “Plenty of folks signing up to learn the arts of defense. Must be from all the lawlessness on the streets these days.”

“You see,” she arched an eyebrow. “I'm looking out for you. Actually, it's good to see a nice crime spree that benefits us both.”

“Come to think on it, why are you still doing jobs?” asked Conn. “I’d’ve thought you’d still be living high from the loot we got from that temple last year.”

“You know how it goes,” she said. “Money works by some kind of magic. One moment there’s all the money in the world, then a few pair of good boots, well tailored clothes, good food, good wine, and suddenly there’s none. There’s never just a little.”

“I’ve heard of that. Like frost. It’s everywhere, then the sun rises and it’s gone.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “I did get to take the winter off and stay nice and warm. Clinging to windows and picking locks with frozen fingers is something I’ll lose a fortune to avoid. And what about you? Why don’t you have an empire of schools and a dozen apprentices doing all the work?”

He shrugged. “As you say, wealth is tricky. I bought a pub. Figured I’d spent enough time in ‘em to know how they work.”

“What happened? You didn’t let yourself drink on credit, did you?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “It turns out there’s a lot that goes into running a place. And the man I bought it from had debts. I figured they couldn’t be so bad. I was mistaken.” He took a cloak from its peg. “Jarving invaders and armed bandits and sorcerers and even that bloody monster temple guardian were easy. You can fight them. And worst they can do is kill you. Moneylenders use uncanny arithmetic to fight you, and no matter what you pay, you owe more than you did before you paid. And you can’t just stab them.”

“Shocking.”

“I know. You’d think a civilized society would let you cut a man who tried to pull that on you, and even cheer you for making the world a better and fairer place. But no.” He shook his head. “Seems they’ve worked their wicked magic on the law as well.”

* * *

Sergeant Niath was about to go home from the night watch when he was summoned to the Commander's office. He was a bit surprised. The Commander and he generally moved in mutually exclusive circles. The sergeant had no concern for politics, glory or promotion. He just liked getting scum off the streets.

His idealism, if it had ever really existed, was long gone. He knew that you couldn't really fix a city like Laimrig. He managed to go to work each night by dividing crimes into two categories, those he didn't care about and those he did. Small crimes that didn't really hurt anybody he ignored. Large crimes by powerful, untouchable people he ignored. Violent, ruthless crimes that struck fear into the populace, added to the general burden of despair that the average citizen carried from day to day, perpetrated by people he could reach with a truncheon, those he cared about.

That wasn't strictly true. He did care about those other crimes. He just didn't obsess about what he couldn't fix. He remembered the details, saved them for leverage, and if he needed to threaten the low or blackmail the powerful to get closer to some vermin he could hit with a stick, those details came in useful.

He knocked at the door to the Commander's office, waited to be called in.

“You wanted to see me,” he stated. It wasn't really a question.

The Commander took a long look at the sergeant. He didn't quite know what to make of the man. Niath's lack of ambition confused him. A man without convenient handles to twist made the Commander uncomfortable. Not a man to promote, or to trust with power, until you knew what he wanted to do with that power.

There was no arguing that the man was effective. The sergeant knew the streets, the gangs, and individual miscreants better than any of his other men. He could get information that most of the Watch couldn't, and he while he shielded his informants, as far as the Commander knew, he wasn't beholden to any of them.

“Just got back from the palace,” said the Commander. “It seems someone broke in and kidnapped the Baron's brand new slave girl late last night. He wants her recovered. No effort spared.”