Authors: Mark Anthony
“I …
am
… whole!”
He gaped at her, and his eyes went wide. A tremor passed through him, and blood trickled from his nose.
Aryn let her anger pour into him. Now he was the one who struggled to get away, but his limbs shook with convulsions. He choked for breath, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. Blood flowed from his nose and ears in a crimson river. He whimpered, and more blood stained his breeches.
“Leave me alone,” she said, then shoved him away.
He screamed, a gurgling sound of agony, but the scream was cut short before he hit the floor. He sprawled on the stones in a growing pool of blood and brains.
Aryn gazed at the corpse, her body straight and stiff, her hand clenched in rage. Yes! She had done it! Then a shudder passed through her. Anger poured out of her like wine from a broken vessel. She lifted her left hand to her mouth, but a low sound of dread escaped her fingers. Her eyes could not let go of the dead earl. What had she done? He had been a monster, but she had slain him, destroyed him with her fury. What did that make her?
Worse than a monster?
Her back to the wall, Aryn sank to the floor, curled her good arm around her knees, and wept.
There was danger in the castle, Durge could feel it.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and beneath his tunic his shirt of mail jingled. The antechamber was cold: No tapestries hung on the walls, no carpets strewed the floor, and no fire burned on the hearth. Durge did not mind. It was better to be chilled—warmth could make a man drowsy and dull of wits. The cold would keep his eyes open and his mind keen, and all his years as a knight, all his experiences in battle, told him he would need both before this Midwinter’s Eve was over.
He flexed his sword hand. Despite the thick leather glove, his fingers were stiff and sore, and he could feel the ends of his bones grind together as he moved them. That was the one problem with the cold. It radiated from his armor, crept into his joints, and gnawed at them like tiny dragons. When he was younger, the cold didn’t bother him. In his days as a squire he had spent several harsh Embarran winters keeping watch atop the walls of forts that stood on the hinterlands of the Dominion, where the white wind roared down from the Winter Sea and one’s piss froze before it hit the ground. However, that had been long ago.
The Embarran knight’s stooped shoulders heaved in a sigh.
This will be your fourth-and-fortieth winter, Durge. You are a young man no longer. Soon you will spend your days wrapped in a blanket by the fire and tell stories of old battles no one remembers and no one wishes to hear about
.
Durge stretched his stiff fingers, forcing them to straighten. No, he was not ready to become a toothless uncle by the fire, not yet. There was still some life left in the earl of Stonebreak.
He blew a breath through his drooping brown mustaches and gazed at the antechamber’s door. There was no telling when it would open. Once Lady Grace and Goodman Travis identified the murderer in the great hall, Lady Aryn was to lead him to this room, with Sir Beltan following behind and just out of sight. Once they had the murderer in the room,
Durge and Beltan would use their swords to subdue him, although they were not to kill him. Grace had been adamant about that. She hoped to use the prisoner to convince the Council of Kings to take action, to stand together against the forces of the Pale King.
Durge shook his head. She was a fierce one, his mistress, not one to give up quickly. Always she believed she had the power to save others if only she worked hard enough. It was a noble ideal and one to aspire to. However, Durge knew that sometimes dedication was not enough—that sometimes no matter how one tried, no matter how one fought, one could not save that which one most cared about, that which one most loved.
Then there was the matter of the kings and queens. Lady Grace’s mind was sharp and logical. She was one to propose a hypothesis, gather evidence, then see if her expectations had proved true or false. Durge understood her methods—the alchemical sciences in which he dabbled progressed in the same manner. The only flaw in Lady Grace’s reasoning was that she expected the kings and queens to be as logical as she.
If only that were the case! However, Durge had witnessed at firsthand the capriciousness of kings and queens. It was an effect of greatness that often rulers came to believe truth was what they decided it would be. If a king declared the sky to be green, then green as emeralds it was. Even confronted with the reality of an ironheart, Durge was not certain any of the rulers at the council would be swayed. Eminda would brand it a hoax, the sniveling Lysandir would follow her lead, and Sorrin—alas, poor King Sorrin—was so mad he would hardly understand what was happening.
All the same, it was a good plan. Durge himself had helped refine the details based on his experience. If anything had a chance of working it was this. However, like the chill, he could not shrug off the pall of apprehension that tightened around him now. They had tried to think through every possibility, through every happening that might go awry, but there was something else, something they had forgotten. He was certain of it. The very air of the keep tingled with peril.
He paced the bare floor to keep his blood moving. “No doubt you are a fool to have left her alone, Durge,” he muttered
under his breath. “But you pledged your sword to her, and you cannot refuse one of her wishes. Even if in your heart you know the Lady Grace is in danger this night.”
Durge halted at a faint sound. He looked up. Silence, three heartbeats, then it came again: a scratching at the antechamber’s door. Could it be the Lady Aryn and their quarry?
Even as he thought this, he raised his hand and reached back to grasp the hilt of his greatsword strapped to his back. It was too early for his companions to have arrived, and the Lady Aryn would not have knocked. The short hairs of his neck prickled and stood on end.
“Come then,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come if it is my blood you seek!”
The door swung open, and he drew his greatsword with a bright ringing of metal. It scuttled through the partly open door and brought a foul scent with it. The thing moved with an ungainly rhythm, as if every step brought it pain. Despite his alarm, pity touched Durge’s heart. Had not Lord Falken said that the feydrim had been Little People before they were twisted by the Pale King’s magic?
Pity almost killed him. The feydrim uncoiled its spindly hind legs and sprang forward, covering half the room in one bound. It opened its snubbed muzzle and bared yellow fangs. Strings of spittle stretched between them. It hissed, then lunged for his throat.
In his moment of distraction Durge had let it get too close—there was not room enough for a full swing of his greatsword. He cursed to himself.
Stone and bone, you are getting dull, Durge! Old and dull. What would the others think of you, giving up your life so easily as this
? He stumbled back, ignored the fire that flared in his knee at the awkward position, and brought his sword up. There was little power in the blow—the swing was too clipped—but the feydrim was forced to scuttle back to avoid the sharp edge of the blade. Its fangs missed their mark, and Durge spun to the side.
Now he had more room to work.
He planted his boots, braced the lean muscles of his legs, and raised the greatsword. So long was the blade that if he placed the tip on the floor he could almost rest his chin on the hilt. There were younger men who could not have lifted
it without falling over. Not so Durge. Despite his age, despite his aches and weariness, his arms were as hard as the stony ground of Embarr. He brought the greatsword around in a whistling arc.
The feydrim was fast, but not fast enough. It tried to twist away, but the blade caught it in the side. Steel bit through blood, crunched through bone. The creature squealed, then fell to the floor. Durge pulled his greatsword back, staggered, then caught himself.
The creature lay at his feet. Its chest heaved spastically, and dark blood soaked its matted gray fur. It gazed up at him with yellow eyes that were far too intelligent for a beast. Then the light in those eyes flickered and went dim. The feydrim heaved one last breath—as if relieved, as if free of the pain at last—then went still.
Durge’s heart pounded in his chest, and he savored the rush of blood in his veins. Yes, there was still some fight left in Durge of Embarr.
The creak of hinges. Durge looked up to see the antechamber’s door swing open farther. A gray, ungainly form slunk into the room. Another followed it, and more after, until there were five of them, stretching spindly limbs, baring sharp teeth, hissing in hate and pain.
Feydrim.
Durge raised his greatsword and stumbled back. The fire inside him burned to ashes, and his mouth went dry. Another of the creatures he could have handled easily, and three perhaps with difficulty. But five? How could any man face five? Blast his old knees, but they were so weak they shook.
Humped backs coiled and uncoiled, and the feydrim advanced. They took their time—they knew they had him cornered. Durge tightened his grip around the greatsword’s hilt. He thought of his friends: his bold mistress, Grace; her kindly friend, Travis, the good knight, Beltan. Last of all he thought of the young Lady Aryn, of her pretty face, and of the strength that dwelled in her sky-blue eyes. He was sorry he would not be able to say farewell to them.
One of the feydrim scuttled forward, slashed with its claws, then leaped back at the flick of his sword. They were testing him, clever creatures. Now his heart pounded again,
and warmth flooded his limbs. Yes, this was what it felt like to be young again.
“Why do you wait?” he shouted at the creatures. Behind his mustaches, he grinned as he had not in decades. “Kill me, if that is what you have come to do. But heed my words—Durge of Embarr will not be the only one who dies this night!”
He held his greatsword out, and as one the feydrim lunged for him.
Beltan stood near the doors of Calavere’s great hall and waited for Aryn to step outside with their quarry. He had gone over the plan again and again in his mind to be certain he had it right, to be certain he made no mistakes. Subterfuge was not one of Beltan’s strengths. He was far better holding a naked sword before him than a hidden knife behind his back.
He drew in a deep breath.
You had better not muck this up, Beltan. You’ve only got one chance. When Aryn shows up, don’t think. Just act
.
Worry was foolish—the plan was simple enough. He was to stand outside the doors of the great hall, pace a bit, and appear as though he was merely waiting for a companion who was late. When Aryn stepped outside the doors with the murderer, he was to nod to her politely, as he would to any passing noble, then resume his pacing. However, once they turned the corner he was to slip after them and follow them to the antechamber where Sir Durge waited. There they would subdue the murderer, and their plan would be complete.
If he didn’t ruin things, that was. The problem with plans was that they made mistakes a possibility. Beltan was much more comfortable facing his enemy without guile. After all, it was hard to make an error of logic when all you had to do was stab your opponent before he stabbed you.
He let out a bitter snort of laughter.
And people thought
you could have been king, Beltan the Bastard. If so, they’re even more dull-witted than you are
.
A few late nobles scurried past him into the great hall. Beltan fingered the eating knife at his waist and wished it was his sword. Had he his preference he would have been clad in chain mail, not his finest green tunic and cloak. However, it was tradition to greet Midwinter’s Eve unarmed. Tonight the revelers in the great hall would set fire to the Everlog so that its light would draw back the sun from its winter journey south. If any at the feast bore a weapon—or so legend told—the sun would flee farther south in fear, and winter would never end.
A shiver crept across Beltan’s back. He was not certain this winter would break no matter how bright the Everlog burned that night. It was a queer cold that gripped the castle, that threatened to crack the stones. He had never felt anything like it, and he doubted anyone had. Anyone except Falken.
Beltan lifted a hand and fingered one of the garlands of green leaves and red berries that encircled his neck. Several fresh-faced maidens had approached him that evening, each bearing a garland she had woven herself. Beltan had politely bowed his head and had allowed each to place the wreath around his neck. It was another tradition of Midwinter’s Eve that a young woman wove such a wreath for the man she favored. The woman who was the last to slip a garland around the neck of the man who received the most was certain to get her wish.
The maidens who had approached Beltan had been sweet and pretty, but he knew neither his face nor his skill with a sword was the reason for their attention. Who better to court than the nephew of the king? However, elder members of the court knew what Beltan himself knew—that at one-and-thirty winters he was already past prime marrying age, that he might have married late to produce an heir to cede his lands to, but that he had no such lands to cede. No, the charms of the maidens would not work that night, as they would find out soon enough. Beltan had heard the call of the bull long ago.
He glanced again at the doors of the great hall and sighed. No one in there was armed with more than an eating knife,
and here there was murder afoot in the castle. Earlier he had told Melia that King Boreas had asked him to keep watch over the doors. The lie ate at him. He should have been in there watching over her. Three years ago he had been lost and purposeless. He had wandered the roads of the Dominions as a vagabond knight, little better than a brigand. Then he had met Melia, along with Falken, in a tavern in Galt, and he had known here before him was one who was worthy of serving. He had pledged his sword to protect her, and she had accepted the hilt of his blade, had tapped him with its flat, and had bidden him rise. In the years since he had never been far from her side.