Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (14 page)

“What do you see?” asked Agnar who crouched uneasily on his
haunches.

“There is a storm coming.”

Agnar laughed. “Funny, those were my sentiments exactly.”

“Not the kind you smell in the wind, champion of arms. Nay, but
a storm nevertheless rises far to the south in the parched heat of a blasted
wasteland. It will rise far from our borders and spread first through Galacia,
but after consuming our foes of yore it will turn its hunger upon us.”

Agnar rubbed at his clean-shaven face as he pondered the
import of the witch’s words. It felt strange to be beardless, but Baruch
thought that the Galacians, who saw only savages in the men of the north, would
take an emissary more seriously if he presented himself in southern fashion. “I
came here, seer,” he said, “to seek what
my
future held.”

“That,” she said with a narrowing of her tempestuous eyes, “is
your fate.”

“By the halls of our fathers,” Agnar cursed. “See you
nothing else?”

“Only that your fate is intertwined with that of a
Southlander—a brother in blood. To save him is to save yourself, and our nation.”

Agnar strode out of the witch’s tent with a heavier heart
than when he had entered, which he hadn’t thought possible. As cousin to the
King, his station as well as his prowess in battle had earned him the respect
of many, and the honored mission of serving as diplomatic emissary to Galacia.

He, unlike most of his brethren, did not relish in the
thrill of the fight, despite his reputation for getting out of tight spots. Truth
be told, Agnar loathed battle, although one of the prime tenets of the Ittamar
way of life said that glory and honor came to those who fell beneath the sword.
Nevertheless, with his unorthodox style of fighting with dual short blades he
cut his way to victory time and again.

While this current mission did not entail force of arms, it
promised to be his most deadly and challenging trial yet.

A son of Ittamar had not set foot on Galacian soil, save the
field of battle, for nigh two centuries. The Gods alone knew what dangers
awaited in the court of his ancient foe. What he did know for certain was that
without southern grain many of his kin would not survive the next winter.

Agnar adjusted the swords he wore at his waist in the
Galacian fashion and pulled his cloak tight. The wind nibbled at his face and
hands, and in that ghostly promise of winter he fancied he heard the whisper of
malignant voices crooning for his blood.

Marshal Rising

Elias watched as the wilting sun painted Macallister’s
fields of grain scarlet. He stood stock-still, biding his time for the better
part of an hour. A careless observer might have taken him for a scarecrow, save
for the Marshal’s duster and the exotic blade strapped to his back.

Elias suppressed a burning desire to spring into action, to
take a torch to Macallister’s fields, barns, and outbuildings, laying waste to
everything he had, as the rancher had done to him. His heart punched against
his breastbone and he breathed heavily, as if caught in a dead run—but still he
waited.

Phinneas, naturally, had thought his plan to take
Macallister in foolhardy at best. “These things must go through the proper
channels,” he had said. “But what’s more, Macallister may have hired swords,
and at the least you’ll have Cormik to deal with. Elias, you could get yourself
killed.”

He had to concede that point to the doctor. The brash young
noble would doubtlessly be eager to take the opportunity to seek requital for
his humiliation in the fencing circle. Elias, however, had reasoned that while
Macallister likely had armed men to protect his lands and riches, they were
probably local men and none too eager to cross steel in mortal combat. The two
men posted at Macallister’s front gates, though, looked anything but, and had
the hardened, grizzled look of professional mercenaries.

Despite the pause that gave him, it had been easy enough to
avoid the sell-swords by scaling an unattended portion the wall that protected
Macallister’s manor and slip around the back of the estate proper. His main
worry at that point had been leaving Comet grazing in the open, which, aside
from being a clue as to the presence of an unexpected guest, denied him the
possibility of a quick getaway if things went south. Or, Elias amended, it had
been his main worry until he discovered that Macallister had also posted a pair
of guards at the rear entrance of the manor by the gardens.

His chances of making it across the open ground unnoticed
were minimal, so he figured he would approach the rear guards straightaway and
try to talk his way past them. A handful of revelers milled about the gardens,
in awe of the sheer bounty of Macallisters unrivaled collection of exotic
flora, so there was a slim chance the guards would mistake him for another gawker,
but not only did it seem likely that an armed man clad in a Marshal’s garb
would strike some suspicion, but Elias had a feeling that the guards may have
been warned to keep an eye out for a man fitting his description.

Nevertheless, he saw little alternative. He waited, patiently
observing, and played through different scenarios in his mind’s-eye. He knew
this was the night. He had to confront Macallister in public. The rancher had
far too much clout for Elias to press charges against him with so little
evidence, for a thorough search of Mayfair Manor had revealed not the smallest
clue as to the assassin’s origins or a connection to Macallister, which left
Elias with only the testimony of Bryn and Lar. He needed the people of Knoll
Creek on his side if he hoped to bring Macallister down.

Phinneas, for all his misgivings, saw the reason in this. It
had been easy enough for Elias to draw the mayor to his cause, and while
Bromstead had little legal power in matters such as these, which fell into the
purview of the duchy’s magistrate, he was well loved by the people of the
county and they would support him.

It had been difficult to approach Bromstead at the funeral,
although he had Bryn, Lar, and Phinneas at his side. Yet it paled in comparison
to seeing Asa laid out.

Everything about the experience was grotesque, from the waxy
sheen of her skin, the thick, cloying scent of the undertaker’s perfume, to her
golden hair, so lustrous in life, now brittle and stiff, like scarecrow straw. Gone
from his betrothed was the light that animated her in life: an almost childlike
exuberance that permeated everything she did, a gentle glow that softened
Elias’s hard edges and calmed the brooding aspects of his personality. Bereft
of that tempering influence, Elias felt only jagged iron in the core of him. So
he held firm to that serrated hunk of ore, for rage and an appetite for
vengeance were all that shielded him from a stifling deluge of grief.

“I have been up at night wondering how something like this
could have happened,” said Ulric Bromstead. “Why is my baby gone? And, Elias,
where have you been?”

“Hunting the men who did this.”

Bromstead’s eyes cleared momentarily and hardened. “And?”

“One of the assassins is dead by my hand.” Elias rested his
hands on Bromstead’s shoulders. “I have learned they came for my father, and
were hired by Roderick Macallister. On his head rests the death of my father
and…” Elias shook his head, unable to say her name. Bromstead trembled and the
blood drained from his face. Elias gathered Bromstead in a hard embrace and
whispered into his ear. “I’m going to take Macallister in tomorrow night at his
gala. He won’t expect it. Lady Denar will support me, but I need you there.”

Bromstead scrubbed his eyes with a handkerchief. “And if he
resists?”

“Let’s hope he does.”

Elias’s thoughts returned to the present. It was almost time.
He wanted Macallister and his guests to glut themselves on his rich food before
taking action. The torpor wrought by decadent beef steaks, roasted quail, heady
wine, and strong knoll-whiskey might give him the edge he needed in taking the
would-be wizard in.

He checked that his sword was clear in its scabbard and
sighed. “You might as well come out, Lar,” he said.

Lar, who crouched behind a bale of hay, stood and
tentatively, like a hound wary of his master’s ire, crept toward his friend. “How
did you know I followed you?”

“I told you to stay with Danica.”

“Agnes has her well in hand. I don’t care what success you
may have had with Slade, you need someone to watch your back. Macallister’s
thugs may not be too keen on you taking him.”

“Bryn is in position at Macallister’s own table, and I have
Bromstead’s support. Once Macallister is subdued his lackeys will probably
stand down.”

“Probably?” Lar screwed up his face in an expression Elias
knew all too well, which said he hadn’t fooled anyone. “Did you really expect
me to stay behind?”

“No.” Elias’s unblinking gaze still fixed on the rear of
Macallister’s Manor. “But this isn’t exactly legal—I’m not really a lawman. If
this thing goes poorly for me, I don’t want to take you down with me. Lar, this
is my fight, not yours.” Elias felt Lar stiffen at his side.

“That’s a hell of a thing for you to say to me.”

A pregnant moment of silence fell between the two friends.

“We wait a few minutes until sundown,” Elias said. “I will
take Macallister and Cormik with Bryn. You’re crowd control. Keep Macallister’s
thugs off my back. Constable Oring will most likely defer to Bryn’s rank, but
we should be prepared for any eventuality.”

“The Mayor hasn’t let Oring in on this whole thing?”

“You kidding me? That sheepskin couldn’t keep a secret from
a stranger he met on the side of the road. The only reason a man like Oring is
wearing the shield is that his Daddy wore it before him. No, Oring’s in the
dark, though he shall be illuminated soon enough.”

Lar stifled a chuckle. “Understood. I’m on crowd, you go for
the head.”

“The hardest part will be gaining entrance to the great hall.”

“What’s the plan then?”

“We walk right in as if we belong here, and hope for the
best. If we encounter resistance we deal with it.”

Then a thought occurred to Elias. He turned to Lar. “You
said Agnes had Danica well in hand. Where is Phinneas?”

Lar grinned and looked toward the horizon. “Sundown, eh? Is
that because that’s when Macallister is serving dinner? That’s what the Doctor
said.”

Elias opened his mouth but his words died on his lips as an
explosion of light stole his attention. A barn on the western perimeter of
Macallisters property had burst into flame. The two guards posted at the rear
entrance of the Manor ran toward the barn, screaming bloody murder. Other hands
soon followed and set about toppling one of the nearby water silos.

“Phinneas Crowe,” Elias breathed.

Lar’s grin stretched wider yet. “He said you might need a
distraction.”

†

Familiar with the interior layout of Macallister Manor
from some few visits in his youth, Elias strode purposefully toward his quarry,
Lar close on his heels. He held his head high and neither meandered nor
hurried, projecting what he hoped was an air of authority. He preferred not to
encounter any resistance before reaching the great hall.

Two idle sentries stood at the ornamented double doors that
led to the great hall. They each wore ceremonial sabers, but Elias had no doubt
that the weapons were as functional as they were comely. The men were clean
shaven and dressed in velvet waistcoats. They didn’t have the grizzled look of
the mercenaries Elias had seen outside. These men had the look of dandies, and
Elias surmised they were of Macallisters own household and were chosen for
their bearing and not their brawn. As such, he was willing to bet they were
none too eager for a fight.

“Who goes there,” said one of the men, while the other
produced a guest list.

“The queen’s business, that’s who, citizen,” Elias growled
in a gravelly voice. “Two of my Marshals hold the perimeter. I need you two to
mind the exits. There is a dangerous enemy of the crown at large.”

“Marshals...” stammered the sentry with the guest list.

Clearly, Macallister did not hire his men for their skills in
oratory, Elias thought. “Go—NOW,” he ordered, affecting all the exasperation of
a seasoned general barking orders at a greenhorn.

The two men scrambled off at a near run, the latter dropping
the guest list in his haste.

Elias gave Lar a single nod, then threw open the double
doors. His boots clacked on the marble floor as he, without missing a beat, strode
with long, deliberate steps toward the center of the room. Lar followed Elias
into the hall, closed the doors behind him, wedged a hatchet between the ornate
handles, stood with his back to them, and brandished his other weapon, a long
hafted axe.

Macallister surged to his feet. “What is the meaning of
this!” he bellowed.

Elias quickly took stock of the situation. Cormik, who had
been mingling, edged toward the head table, which was situated on the far wall,
perpendicular to the entryway and the tables of the guests in mimicry of a
royal dining chamber; two burly men who stood on either side of Macallister’s
table began to inch toward a couple of broadswords conveniently hung on the
wall in seeming decoration; Bryn’s hands covertly slipped into her lap to draw
the daggers she had secreted away in her garters.

Elias paused his advance and threw back the flap of his
duster, exposing the hilt of his sword. “Roderick Macallister, you are hereby
charged with the murder of Padraic Duana, Asa Bromstead, the attempted murder
of Danica Duana, and high treason against the crown. You are bound by law to
stand down.”

Those that sat at the dozen tables perpendicular to
Macallister’s gasped as one.

Constable Oring began to stand, his features crinkled in
confusion, and his mouth working soundlessly. Macallister placed a restraining
hand on the constable’s shoulder and forced his most gregarious smile and
opened his arms. “Elias, dear boy, I don’t know what or whom has put these
poison notions in your head, but they are simply not true. Please, let us
discuss this reasonably.”

Elias felt a warm, tingling sensation creep over his bosom. Fearing
some perfidious sorcery on Macallister’s part, he clasped a hand to his chest. His
father’s shield felt warm to the touch.

Meanwhile, Ulric Bromstead stood on the other side of
Macallister and took a deep breath. “You can discuss it at the Constabulary
office in town, Roderick. Lady Denar recognizes Duana here, as do I.”

Bryn rose to her feet and said, “Aye, that I do.”

Macallister shot Bromstead an incredulous look. “My dear
Mayor, I shall have some things to say to the Magistrate about all this most
irregular, and frankly illegal, repositioning of authority. I only wish the
good Magistrate was able to make it tonight, although it is perhaps in your
best interest that he did not.”

“Son,” Macallister continued, turning back to Elias, “no one
feels the loss of your father more than I. Surely you must know I would have
never lifted a hand to harm you and yours.”

His father’s shield grew warmer yet in Elias’s hand, and
with it came a cold certainty. “You lie.”

“How dare you barge in here with these ridiculous, unfounded
accusations!” Macallister cried. “You’re not the law!”

Elias bowed his head, lowered into a fighting stance, and
peered at Macallister from under the brim of his hat, which cast a shadow
across his stern features. “I am tonight.” His voice was scant more than a
whisper, but veritably crackled with arcane force and echoed off the far
corners of the hall with an insistent power.

Macallister must have seen something in Elias’s black eyes
at that moment, or perceived the heft of the arcane in the distiller’s words,
for he blanched. “Take him down,” he said.

“Belay that order,” Bryn said as she inched closer to
Macallister. “On the queen’s authority, stand down. The crown recognizes
Marshal Duana as the sword of the law.”

Macallister’s thugs froze, hesitant to act against a member
of the royal bloodline.

Macallister, sensing his thugs’ reticence, feigned sitting
down in resignation only to whip out a bejeweled dagger from inside his coat. He
leveled it at Elias and cried, “
Volate!
”

Bryn, threw a kick at his outstretched arm, but despite her
fluid agility, Macallister had already triggered his spell.