Soulbinder (Book 3) (2 page)

“Joseph is a skilled trapper,” said Maklavir as he cut off a slice of the grayish cheese. “And Kara’s a fairly decent woodsman herself. I’m betting they’ll have some furs to trade when they get back.”

“They’d better,” glowered Kendril, “because so far all we’ve gotten from your card playing are death threats.”

Maklavir waved his knife in the air. “I told you, I had that under control.”

Kendril sighed, looking off to the side and rubbing his arms.

The air in the common room was chilly, despite the blazing fire just a few feet away. Last night’s bedding hadn’t kept out the frigid cold much, either. Of course, even that would be better than sleeping out in the stables, which is what they were facing unless they got enough money for rooms tonight.

All in all, Kendril thought to himself as he looked over the tables of the common room, things were about as low as they could get. To make matters worse, if he had just gotten out of bed five minutes later Maklavir would most likely be dead right now and he could have been spared the tediousness of having breakfast with the man.

Tomorrow he was definitely sleeping in.

They ate in silence, enjoying as best they could the meager fare before them. As Kendril drained the last of his ale, Maklavir yawned, stretching his arms as the fire crackled nearby.

“I suppose we should go get the animals,” he said, his voice drained of enthusiasm.

Kendril nodded, wiping his chin. “When did Joseph say he and Kara would be back?”

Maklavir brushed some crumbs off his trousers and got stiffly to his feet. “Sometime today. He wasn’t much more specific than that.”

Kendril got up as well, and cast a quick look at a group of men clustered at one of the other tables. “Hopefully they’ll find us, then.”

His companion sighed. “Hopefully.”

They moved to the door of the simple tavern and headed outside.

The first bite of air was startlingly cold, and Maklavir pulled on his gloves against the chill.

Kendril closed the door behind them and glanced around.

The front porch of the inn was small, opening abruptly onto the main street of Stefgarten. Icicles glistened brightly in the morning sunshine from where they hung along the edge of the inn’s roof, and the wooden steps leading down to the street sparkled with ice as well. Snow covered the entire street in front of them, close to a foot deep in places. A small lane had been plowed through the center of the road, and snow had been piled against the buildings on either side. The constant churning of passing people and animals had turned it an unhealthy brown, and in places the dirt showed through the trampled snow on the bottom of the lane.

Kendril glanced up at the bright sky above, then moved for the stairs that led to the street. He grabbed the railing carefully as he descended, trying not to slip on the icy footing.

Cold winters were certainly not a strange sight this far north, and life in Stefgarten plodded remorselessly on through the inclement weather. Several travelers worked their way down the street, keeping their heads down against the crisp air. A large wagon carrying several barrels creaked through the snow, a small gray dog yapping and biting at the heels of the weary horses that pulled it. Across the street under the awning of the local general store three men were drinking whiskey and laughing uproariously at some joke. A woman wearing a dark blue handkerchief over her head hurriedly crossed the street, huddling a screaming infant close to her chest.

Kendril pulled up his cloak against the cold breeze. He watched the road carefully.

Maklavir clambered down the steps as well, both hands on the rail.

Three men came out from an alleyway across the way, wearing wide-brimmed hats and keeping their faces down out of the wind.

“It was like this all the time in Valmingaard,” said Maklavir conversationally as he stepped cautiously into the snow. “Bloody cold almost the year round. Can’t say I miss it much.”

Kendril crunched into the snow. He glanced over at the woman and her screaming infant. “The Valmingaard border’s not far from here, just a day’s march or so to the north.” He smirked. “Maybe we should drop in and say hi to your old friends at the royal court.”

“That wouldn’t be such a good idea,” said Maklavir as he tried his best to avoid getting snow on his trousers, “what with the banishment and all. The King was never too good at controlling his temper, and I have a feeling—” He glanced up, his face suddenly blanching. “Great Eru!”

Kendril whirled. One hand reached for his pistol.

The three men that had appeared from the alley were coming towards them. Two of them were the same ruffians that Maklavir had been playing cards with that morning. The third was a large man who looked to be a friend of theirs.

Somehow, Kendril thought as he whipped out one of his pistols, he had a feeling they weren’t interested in another game.

The gun was barely in his hand before one of the men swung a large wooden club. It caught the barrel of the pistol and knocked it out of Kendril’s grip.

The firearm flew into the snow a few feet away.

His wrist still ringing from the blow, Kendril jumped back and fished wildly for the hilt of one of the two short swords buckled to his belt. He crashed into Maklavir, and sent them both sprawling back against the wooden steps.

The diplomat gave a sharp cry of pain as the sharp corner of one dug into his ribs.

The man with the club was readying another blow when his foot slipped on a patch of ice. He wobbled and threw out both hands to steady himself.

The second man drew his knife, then caught sight of Kendril’s pistol in the snow. He rushed off to the side, and reached out a hand for the gun.

With a muffled curse, Kendril shoved Maklavir aside and drew his sword. He nearly lost his footing on the icy ground.

The diplomat slid into the wooden railing, than fell backwards into the snow.

The man with the club had finally steadied himself, but not before Kendril leapt at him.

The Ghostwalker’s sword shone fiercely in the morning sun before it cleaved through the wooden club and into the man’s arm.

The ruffian screamed shrilly as he tripped back into the snow. Blood erupted from his slashed limb.

Kendril spun around, just in time to see the second man with the knife pick his gun up out of the snow. He launched the short sword in his hand through the air towards the man.

Admittedly, it wasn’t a very tactically sound maneuver. Swords were in general not designed to be aerodynamic, and throwing one was generally a sign of extreme desperation.

Then again, this situation struck Kendril as being about as desperate as they came.

Fortunately, the blade proved better at the task than Kendril had assumed.

The second man was just straightening when the short sword hit him squarely in the middle of the chest. The impact of the heavy steel punched the air out of his lungs, and with a rather muffled grunt he toppled back into the snow.

Still smiling from the unexpected success of his flying sword trick, Kendril turned back around.

The smile vanished from his face.

The third man was standing just a few feet away. He had thrown off his coat, revealing a chest that bristled with more muscles than Kendril could remember seeing in a long time. His bald head and the gold earring dangling from his left ear only contributed to the overall menacing demeanor.

Those, and the five-foot long double-handed sword that he held as lightly as a feather in his hands.

The woman with the infant screamed, dashing through the snow towards the safety of the other side of the street. The men drinking whiskey on the porch across the street quickly put down their bottles, and crowded along the edge of the railing to see what was happening.

The card-player whose arm Kendril had slashed struggled to his feet with a curse, cradling his injured limb. “Talvik,” he shouted, “kill him!”

The large man smiled. Several of his teeth were missing. His hands tightened on the hilt of the massive sword. He took a half step forward.

Kendril moved back. His eyes never left the man’s face.

Maklavir emerged from the snow, shaking the white flakes off his arms. His eyes widened as he saw the large man with the massive sword. He fumbled for the hilt of his own weapon. “Kendril—”

“
Shut up
,” the Ghostwalker hissed, waving one of his hands back without taking his eyes from Talvik’s face. On his belt his second sword and loaded pistol dangled with tantalizing nearness, but Kendril knew that to reach for them would be death. His adversary was far too close, and the brief half-second it would take to draw a weapon would be just enough time for the double-handed sword to take his head off.

“Kill him!” the man with the injured arm screamed again.

Talvik grinned again, his gold earring glittering in the cold sunlight.

The next moment the two-handed sword sang through the air, straight at Kendril’s head.

Chapter 2

Kendril threw himself to the side.

He rolled through the snow and stumbled as quickly as he could to his feet again.

The two-handed sword cleaved through the space where he had been a moment before. The steel blade gouged off a piece of the nearby wooden railing as it sailed by.

Maklavir gave a yelp and leapt back. He slipped on the ice but keeping his footing.

Kendril reached for the pistol at his belt as he rose.

Talvik was too fast.

The towering man sprung forward, roaring in anger. He brought the massive sword down at Kendril.

The Ghostwalker vaulted back, and fell into the snow as Talvik’s sword carved a path disturbingly close to his chest.

Without stopping the muscle-bound man readjusted his grip and swung his weapon at Kendril again with blinding speed.

With a strangled curse Kendril dodged. He smashed back up against something hard. He half-turned, glimpsing the shape of a large wagon behind him. The driver appeared to have mysteriously vanished.

Talvik came again. He lifted his sword in the air with both hands.

Kendril dropped to the ground, feeling the sharp cold of the snow, then rolled backwards. He ducked his head as he felt the undercarriage of the wagon brush his shoulder.

The entire vehicle shuddered as Talvik’s sword smashed down into the wood where Kendril had been standing a moment before.

The man let out a shriek of rage, struggling to dislodge his sword from where it was stuck in the wagon’s side.

Kendril rolled onto this stomach, and reached one hand towards his belt. The bottom of the wagon was inches above his head, his left cheek pressed into snow and mud. Three feet away he could see Talvik’s boots shuffling around in the slush. Kendril banged his elbow painfully against the wagon above him as he tried to get the pistol out of its holster.

This was certainly a grand moment, he thought bitterly. Hiding like a scared cat under a wagon. It really wasn’t—

Without warning the sword was shoved point down into the snow, where it stood for a moment, embedded in the frozen ground. The next instant two powerful hands gripped the underside of the wagon carriage and heaved upwards.

To Kendril’s horror the entire wagon flipped over the top of him and crashed down on its side behind him.

Talvik easily yanked the sword out of the ground and held it in one beefy hand.

Kendril yanked out his flintlock pistol and fired.

There was a half-hearted spark, and the snow-covered weapon misfired. Smoke drifted uselessly from the damp firing pan.

Kendril glanced at the overturned carriage behind him, then down at his smoldering pistol. He looked up at Talvik. “I don’t suppose you want to talk this over?”

With one smooth motion the ruffian swept the large sword over his head, ready to bury it in Kendril’s skull.

The Ghostwalker winced, preparing himself for the inevitable blow.

It never came.

There was a sharp hissing sound, followed by a low thud.

Talvik’s staggered forward, his face registering shock and pain. He started to turn, but there was another sharp whizzing noise, and he crumpled to the ground, landing face first in the snow.

Two arrows protruded from his back.

A figure stood in the middle of the road twenty paces behind the body, a longbow held in her left hand. Her free hand reached up and lowered the hood of the green cloak that flapped gently in the wind. Red hair spilled down onto her shoulders.

Kendril replaced his pistol, rubbing his hand across his snow-covered cheek. “Your timing is impeccable, Kara.”

The young woman reached for another arrow. “Any more?”

Kendril heaved himself to his feet. Snow fell from the edges of his trousers. “Just one,” he said as he glanced around, “and it looks like he’s long gone. Where’s Joseph?”

Kara left the arrow in her quiver and brushed back her hair. “Coming.” She gave the dead man a distasteful look. “Not really a challenge unless they’re twice your size, I suppose?”

The Ghostwalker walked up to her. He gave a good-natured shrug. “I had it under control.”

Kara nodded. “Sure you did.”

Maklavir came through the snow towards them, one hand still on the hilt of his sword. “Kara! Thank Eru. I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come when you did.”

“Yes,” said Kendril with a sardonic smile, “Things were bad. Maklavir actually had his sword half-drawn.”

Kara sighed. “We’ve only been gone for three days. You two couldn’t stay out of trouble for that long?”

Kendril glanced back over his shoulder at Talvik’s body. “They started it.”

The beautiful redhead shouldered her longbow. “Why is it, Kendril, that you always manage to get into a fight in whatever town we visit?”

“Hey,” said the Ghostwalker lightly, “this time it was Maklavir’s fault. I had nothing to do with it.”

The diplomat’s face turned red. “It most certainly was
not
my fault,” he protested. “How can you—”

“Guys,” cut in Kara in an exasperated tone, “drop it, all right? We have other problems.”