Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7) (17 page)

Quill refuses to look Sari in the face and cuts up his pheasant, jumping when he sees another apple disappear from a nearby cart. He slowly chews every bite while he decides on how open he should be with the gypsy. On the one hand, she is a powerful ally against the Helgardians and has done nothing wrong towards him. The problem is that she is the rival of his beloved cousin. After losing most of the family in a short amount of time, the nobleman is reluctant to cause friction among the survivors. He watches Sari eat her meal and try everything that has been ordered. The relaxed casualness of his companion helps put him at ease and for a brief moment Quill believes they are on a real date.

“My uncle has been very short-tempered and aggressive these last few weeks,” he says, forming a steeple with his thin fingers. He leans forward in order to converse in a whisper that only Sari can hear. “Kira has taken the brunt of it because she openly questions him and doesn’t always obey. They really got into it when she ventured out of the city and was nearly killed by a nomad scouting party. Priceless vases were thrown, but we’re not sure which one of them lost their temper first. This and other things have myself, Timbre, and Asher worried about the family’s future.”

“What other things?”

“Uncle Wayland is really obsessed with this war and keeps bringing up Aunt Brea.”

“It isn’t strange for a man to talk about his dead wife.”

“She died ten years ago and now he talks about the life they will have.”

“You think your uncle wants to die?”

Quill rubs his eyes and sits back in his chair, taking a deep drink of water. “It’s crossed our minds, but he seems very determined to win the war. If a man wishes to die then he wouldn’t try so hard to live through this. I wish I could explain it better, but you would have to have known Uncle Wayland before he changed.”

Sari is about to speak when Fizzle darts out of the rafters and the clang of teeth on metal rings. The drite lands on the floor and scampers over to the gypsy with a narrow dagger in his mouth. Patrons scream and rush for the door when the slender bartender leaps over the bar with a short spear. He charges at Quill, but Sari jumps in the way while Fizzle lands on the noble’s shoulder to turn him invisible. Her daggers push the weapon to the side and she steps closer to kick the assassin in the stomach, knocking him into a cart.

“Take Quill home, Fizzle, and stay invisible,” the gypsy orders, forcing the man back by quickly slashing at him. She is too close for her enemy to use the spear, so he risks getting cut by punching at her. “Let’s find out who you are.”

Sari darts in and is a few inches from using a kiss to deliver a truth spell when the man stops fighting back. Sensing that something is wrong, she stops and ducks around him, delivering a kick to the back of his knee. The assassin spins as he falls and slams the side of his spear against her thigh, knocking her into a table. Foam is dripping from the sides of his mouth and he leaps at Sari with a sudden burst of speed. She backflips over the table to escape, the point of the spear grazing her arm. With a roar, the assassin smashes the furniture in his path and chases the gypsy into the street where she has more room to dodge the clumsy attacks.

“The guards are really slow around here,” she mutters when everyone clears off the streets to avoid the fight. “Why are you still after me? Go to a healer.”

“Return the scepter to them,” the assassin drones in a numb voice. “They will kill all who keep the scepter from them.”

Sari hurls a dagger to startle the man, but he lets it fly by his ear. She deflects a jab of the spear and slams her head into the assassin’s jaw, the dripping foam burning her scalp. Waving her hands while moving away, she pulls water out of several barrels left on the street for public drinking. The gusher takes the assassin’s legs out as it approaches Sari and transforms into small platforms that lead to the nearest rooftop. She jumps on the lowest one and is launched to the next, ricocheting off her watery ledges until she gracefully lands next to a camel-shaped weathervane. Sari takes a step toward the edge, but the assassin slams down in front of her, the man having jumped from the street.

“Someone drugged you,” she whispers, backing away with her daggers drawn. She throws one of the weapons at her attacker’s thigh, the blade tearing a chunk off him. “No blood. I’m guessing you don’t have much longer.”

“Return the scepter.”

“What scepter?”

“The scepter of the Helgardian tribe must be returned.”

Sari puts the bronze weathervane between herself and the assassin, hoping to think of an idea to cure the man. “I think you mean ‘us’ instead of ‘them’. Unless you’re nothing more than a hired, and obviously betrayed, assassin. Though I didn’t think the nomads would hire an outsider. Where would they even find one if they’re out in the desert?”

The assassin hisses like a cornered beast and charges up the domed roof. Sari waits for him to get close and puts all of her strength into shoving the weathervane. The metal decoration spins and hits the man in the nose, sending him stumbling away. He trips over his foot and flails wildly, hitting himself in the head with the spear. For a second, his eyes lose their insane glint and Sari sees a look of confused terror on his face. Before she can reach the assassin, he falls off the roof and lands with a sickening crunch.

“Something isn’t right here,” Sari whispers as she stars at the crumpled form below. She turns to the distant dunes, hoping in vain to see a familiar form on the horizon. “I wish you were here, Nyxie. We could really use your help.”

*****

“This isn’t very hospitable,” Delvin mentions while he examines the handcuffs keeping him to the wooden chair. “Is this how you treat your guests?”

Asher glances up from the map of Bor’daruk and the surrounding desert, meeting the other warrior’s grin with an amused chuckle. He grunts and scowls when Wayland grabs him by the ear and forces him to return his attention their plans. Figurines are scattered about the map with most of them outside of the wall. Whispering to his father, Asher moves several pieces back into the area denoting the manor, which is not very far from the city’s towering defense. The older Grasdon rolls his eyes and puts the pieces back, slamming them down with more force than necessary.

“I’m not feeling very welcomed here,” Delvin interrupts while he tries to move his tingling arms.

“You were welcomed into our home, Mercenary Prince, but you’re pushing your luck with me,” Wayland angrily snaps, smacking three of the pieces over. He leaves his son to fix the small mess and storms over to the warrior. “I can handle a guest arguing with me and being defiant in the face of my polite requests. My wife and I draw the line at one who knocks out five of our guards and tries to ride one of the elephants through the outer wall. Do you realize how stressed that beast is because of you? They aren’t like horses and camels.”

“I apologize to you, your wife, and your elephant. I’ve only seen them once and they were aggressive mounts used by orcs,” Delvin says, bowing his head. Exhaustion sets into his body and he tries to lean forward, his arms wrenched by the handcuffs. “Please understand that I’m in love with one of the women who is out in that desert. I’d give anything to save her and you have me contained here. You would do the same if your wife was lost out there.”

Wayland appears taken aback by the warrior’s words and coughs uncomfortably. He coils his beard around his hand while his mind drifts away. The sound of Asher’s sword clunking against the table jolts the merchant out of his thoughts. Grumbling incoherently, he tosses his son the key to Delvin’s cuffs and heads for the exit. Both of the young men notice Wayland’s slumped shoulders as he leaves them and softly closes the door.

“What did I say?” Delvin asks.

“My father understands how you feel, but it’s hard for him to face such emotions,” Asher replies while unlocking his guest’s cuffs. Returning to the map table, he offers the warrior a cup of coffee, which he leaves on the desert section. “You heard him mention his wife, but mom died ten years ago. He gets confused when under stress and acts like she’s still alive. When he’s reminded that she died, he wanders off like that. It’s been very bad since this mess with the nomads started and my little sister has taken the brunt of it. I’ve heard him call her my mom’s name instead of Kira twice in the last month. That’s really rough on her since she still slips and occasionally says parents instead of father when talking about the family.”

Delvin takes a sip of the warm drink, enjoying the aromatic scent. “I’m sorry to hear about it. I know it’s ten years too late, but you have my condolences.”

“You’re a very kind man for someone who has repeatedly tried to break out,” the nobleman mentions. The wide-eyed look of caution on his guest’s face causes him to smile. “I know of all your attempts. Scaling the wall yesterday and being sent back down by the guards. My favorite is trying to bribe the night watch with an apple pie, which your little friend ate before you could finish your negotiations. I’ve kept all of them secret from my father since Kira told me the reason for your agitation. I couldn’t do anything about the elephant since you knocked over a few trees and scared the peacocks.”

“At least nobody got hurt.”

“I’ve been told that you’re a talented tactician. Care to look at this and give me your opinion?” Asher politely requests while he pours himself a glass of wine. The armored nobleman runs his hand along the map, his eyes constantly examining the terrain. “I can only place my own forces on the map since I don’t know exactly what the Helgardians will do. My father’s agents have gathered some information, but it is nothing that I didn’t see coming. They approach from the northeast and we have word that most of the other tribes have made camp far away. Nobody wants to risk their trade agreements with my family or the wrath of the Helgardians. Only a few smaller tribes have joined our enemies in the hopes of earning more reputation from the battle.”

“The Helgardians don’t trade with you?”

“They do, which is why this war is very delicate and troubling.”

Delvin nods as he thinks about what Asher has told him, his eyes falling on the detailed map. Stroking his stubbled chin, he remembers the times he was hired to defend a walled city or attack a fortified area. The layout of Bor’daruk is refreshingly simple compared to some of his past jobs as a mercenary. Symbols on the ocean side of the city tells Delvin that a wall can rise up and the docks become either a combat vessel for soldiers or a large escape raft for the citizens. He frowns when he notices that only a few tiny figurines are scattered about the city proper. Most of the Grasdon’s forces are outside the wall and lining the top, which he assumes means archers. Stifling his laughter, he gets a closer look at four knights standing alongside a dragon and a princess within the manor.

“I’m going to guess that these are my friends and I protecting Kira,” Delvin states, tapping one of the knights over. “Your father wants to use us as a final line of defense in case your forces can’t hold the wall. I’d rather be in the city since the only ways into Bor’daruk are the front door and the ocean. Our object should be to prevent the Helgardians from getting into the manor because once your outer wall is breeched, we have to worry about noncombatants. At least in the city, people can hide in their homes and the nomads will leave them alone.”

“I agree, but my father swears the city will handle the streets,” Asher explains, drawing his curved sword to shift figurines around. After moving the knights to the street, he pushes a few archers and desert forces into the manor. “This is what I keep proposing. The manor guards would be defensive only to give noncombatants time to escape into tunnels that lead to a safe house in the desert. We also set up archers to slow down the enemy advance. I have no idea why my father only wants archers on the city wall. In fact, I don’t understand any of these tactics.”

“Is he a military man?”

“My father is a merchant, but he’s studied the old wars.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“I respect my father, but I’m forced to agree with you.”

Crouching to stretch his legs, Delvin finds a basket of figurines under the table and a red caster catches his attention. He takes the wooden statue and turns it over in his hands, the short hair and pointy ears reminding him of Nyx. The warrior’s concentration is broken by Asher coughing and he looks up to see if his companion is choking. When he turns his attention back to the piece, he realizes that the figurine is really of a long-haired human. With a heavy sigh, Delvin places the caster in the desert and inches it toward the city.

“My recommendation is to let your dad think he’s in charge and make sure you’re the one to give assignments in the field,” he tells Asher, raising his hand to stop an argument. He taps the nearest warrior figurine while imagining the battle. “There are too many men out here, so move most of them to just within the doors. Utilize your archers to weaken the approaching forces and eliminate as many enemies as possible before melee combat begins. If you can use several of the swordsman forces into crossbowmen then do that, but make sure they know to draw their blades when the nomads reach this spot outside the wall. Once our enemies get this far, it will turn into a melee within the confines of the entrance and the streets, which should give you an advantage over warriors who are used to fighting in open desert. My friends and I will handle things our way, but it will depend on if this caster is here or not.”

The nobleman picks up the figurine and turns it over in his hand. “What difference would this woman make? I guess she could handle any more monsters that they send our way. We’re still afraid that there are more creatures on the way.”