When that had its usual, predictable effect, she kicked him to the ground, drew her second dagger, yanked his head up, and slit his throat. Dropping his head, she retrieved her sword and stalked across the temple to the man still standing there, waiting. He came at her when she was halfway to him, twin long daggers catching the light.
Killing him did not feel right, but that did not mean he couldn't be hurt. He was not as skilled as the men she had just killed and disarming him proved to be almost pathetically easy.
When he had no means of fighting back, Cortez subdued him by way of smashing the hilt of her dagger into his nose. Then she grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair and dragged him across the temple and up the short stairs to the dais where the altar stood.
Bending him over it so the blood pouring from his nose covered the altar, Cortez said, "Blood of the living to honor the dead. We live because you died. Life and death cannot exist without each other. In the name of the Basilisk, amen."
He tried to sneer at her recitation of the old prayer, one not used by Brothers because they refused to honor the Basilisk so, but it was still very common to the tepid Church sanctioned by the crown.
Cortez let go of his hair, grabbed his wrist, and laid it on the altar. Drawing her dagger again, she pressed the edge of it against his wrist until it began to bleed, until his skin leeched of color. "When you decide to kill someone, make certain you are capable of doing it. If you are ever stupid enough to challenge me again, corpse-eater, it is not your hand I will remove."
She left him there, bent over the altar, dripping blood and shaking with fear. Outside, she made her way quickly back to the inn, worried that they had known all along where to find Culebra.
When she finally reached it, however, all seemed well. The courtyard was quiet, and she could smell dinner being served in the main hall. Moving stiffly, she went to see if Culebra's clothes were clean.
The servant recognized her from earlier and handed the cleaned clothes over. Cortez gave her a coin and hastened back to the room. She knocked three times, waited, and then knocked three more.
"Just a moment," Culebra called through the door, the words just barely audible. Cortez waited impatiently as she heard him fumble with the key, barely resisting the urge to shove the door open when the tumblers finally gave. Stepping inside, she shut the door and, taking the key from him, quickly locked it again. "I have your clothes. Did you eat?"
Culebra replied, "Yes, I ate. How did your ... inquiry go?"
"Poorly," Cortez said. "I know you were looking forward to a real bed, highness, but we must go."
"Help me dress," Culebra said in reply, and he dropped his clothes to the floor to begin pulling off the ones he wore. She bundled them up and shoved them into her bag. Retrieving the newly laundered clothes, she quickly helped him into them and then got his boots on and laced up.
One plate of food had been left untouched, and while she wanted simply to leave, she knew eating would do more good in the long run. Picking up the plate, she wolfed it down as quickly as she dared, interspersing bites with swallows of raw red wine.
When she finished, Culebra was standing patiently by the door, already cloaked and gloved. Cortez looked around the room for anything forgotten, then grabbed her bag and took his arm, leading the way to the courtyard and then through the walkway at the very back which led to the yard and stables behind the inn.
The boy she'd paid earlier saw her and immediately bolted into the stable. By the time they reached it, he had brought her horse out, saddled and ready. Cortez situated her bag, checked the supplies in the saddlebags and, pleased with everything, gave the boy another coin.
She helped Culebra into the saddle and then swung up behind him. Dusk was falling when they rode away, making it easier to ride through the city.
"So what happened?" Culebra asked when they were well away.
"The Brothers here were not happy to see me. Somehow word has gotten out that I have you. I feared as much, given our run-ins with the Order, but I had hoped it was simply confined to them."
Culebra sighed softly. "I see. That's unfortunate. Bad enough we have our destination looming over us, now we must watch our backs?"
"All will be well, highness. One way or another. I have not gone to this much trouble to let anyone die."
"This is the land of death," Culebra replied. "If people are meant to die, they will die."
Cortez did not bother to reply, simply urged the horse to a faster pace so they could get as far away from the city as possible before they were finally forced to stop.
"Get your hands off me, you corpse-eating refuse pile," Dario snarled and slammed his knee into the bastard's groin then brought his bound arms up to slam them into his head.
When the man dropped to the ground, Dario kicked his side for good measure. "Seriously, watch where you put your hands. I know tying people up is the only way a carrion feeder like you gets to put his dick in something, but don't confuse me with the farm animals you tie up in the barn."
Fidel, already tied to the wall on the far side of the room, burst into laughter. Dario shot him an annoyed look—and barely dodged away from the fist that came flying at his face.
He had nowhere to go, not really, not when he was in chains. Two more guards came in and, ignoring the bastard still curled up in a ball of agony on the floor, helped the second guard secure Dario to the wall, wrapping additional chains around his ankles.
The man he'd leveled slowly climbed to his feet, face still pale. "I will kill you."
"Go ahead and try," Dario snapped. "But I promise that if you kill me, your boss will be feeding you to the farm animals instead of giving you an hour off to fuck them."
Snarling, the bastard punched him. Dario grunted, but did not respond. At least it felt like his nose was only battered, not broken, though he was not going to enjoy the smell and feel of blood in addition to the fact he already smelled like a barnyard himself.
Oh, well. Maybe that was why the corpse-eater had grabbed his ass. Dario just beamed as the other guards dragged the man away.
"I thought you said we should lay low and behave until an opportunity arose," Fidel said dryly.
"Fine," Dario said. "When he grabs your ass, enjoy the ride."
Fidel made a face. "No, thank you. I may be a criminal, but I prefer my partners be washed and know how to fuck properly and well."
Dario grinned, but winced when that did nothing to make his poor nose feel better. "I really wish they would let us bathe."
"I am sure your new friend would be willing to negotiate bath privileges."
Dario gestured crudely with his free hand, making Fidel laugh more. As their laughter finally faded, less amusing thoughts settled back in. "So we are in Belmonte now," Dario said. "Even with that insufferable hood I could tell that."
Snorting, Fidel replied, "The fact we rode through an entire city in hoods and chains and nobody stopped to ask if all was as it should be proves we are in Belmonte."
"True enough."
"I wonder how much longer we will have to sit in the dark wondering what is coming next," Fidel said with a sigh. "Me, I am rather tired of it. I do not have your patience. Not in things like this."
Dario lifted a brow. "When do you have any patience?"
"On jobs. Dealing with Cortez. That's about it."
"What did you do for the Brotherhood? You do not seem to be a killer like Cortez."
Fidel shrugged. "I often was her back up in case things went wrong. Mostly, I was a thief and a messenger. Especially a messenger."
Dario eyed him, not quite believing it, even if he knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving. He was nearly as short as Fidel and compact. Nothing like Granito, who had been tall and broad and nearly unstoppable. But Fidel was a messenger, the coy criminal term for those sent to intimidate. "No, I am sorry. How do you intimidate anyone when I know children bigger and louder and meaner than you?"
"How many children do you know who can wield daggers well enough to flay a man?"
The matter-of-fact tone was far more chilling than the words themselves. Fidel clearly was not bragging, only stating what was. "I certainly can't. I don't think the palace chefs are that talented. Do you often flay for the Brotherhood?" Bits of information gleaned from years of keeping one ear always turned toward the cults suddenly tumbled into place. "Dagger," Dario said, annoyed it had taken him so long to figure it out. "You are the one they call the Dagger."
"Just so," Fidel said with a crooked smile. "I only flayed a part of a man's arm once, and that was after he did something so terrible that even the Brotherhood would not tolerate it. He tried to do it a second time, and that is when they sent in Cortez to end the matter once and for all."
Dario shook his head, amazed. "Incredible." Fidel just shrugged. "I am impressed they captured you, then. You must have been difficult to take down."
"As I said when we met, I killed two of them in the process. They nabbed me as I was travelling through the tunnel roads. I was only a day away from being back in Piedre. That will teach me to relax my guard, and I thought it was a lesson I had already learned so well." He sighed.
Dario winced. Culebra had always wanted to travel through the famous tunnels roads that cut straight through the mountains between Piedre and Verde, but he and Granito had always forbidden it. The tunnels were dangerous, and once entered, there was no way out except through the entrances at either end. They went on for miles, and it took even the hardest traveler two days to get through the longest of them. All told, it took a week, which was still better than the long way weaving through the mountains.
The sound of footsteps drew their attention, and a moment later the door flew open. A man walked in, someone Dario had not seen before, though he surmised the man was probably the owner. Whoever their captors were, they seemed to like helping themselves to houses instead of using inns and hotels like normal people.
But he had not seen any reason to call them normal, so he supposed that made sense. The man hovered in the doorway, clearly terrified of them. What had the bastards said to convince him they were the bad ones? It was not even worth asking about.
Instead, Dario just closed his eyes and rested against the wall, tunelessly humming a hymn while the man slowly shuffled in and set down plates or bowls or something. When Dario heard the door close again, he opened his eyes. A bowl of soup sat next to him, smelling of lamb and potatoes.
Eating it with one hand was awkward, but after so many days of it, Dario was beginning to get fairly proficient. The man had also brought them cups of thin beer. It was not nearly as good as wine, but Dario supposed nobody was going to give him that after he'd tossed it up all over their boots.
They'd just finished eating when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence again. The door opened and two of the mercs walked in flanking another new man. From the way he held himself, the deference of the guards, Dario suspected he was finally getting introduced to the corpse-eating bastard in charge of everything.
Dario hated him on sight. He had always had good instincts for people; it was a skill that Granito had praised often. Whoever the newcomer was, Dario felt it would have been best for everyone if he fell over dead.
At a glance, there was nothing remarkable about him. He looked Piedren, with the darker skin more common to the mountain regions; long, dark hair; dark eye;, and the heavy, muscular build of a laborer. His clothes were good quality, but did not fit him quite right. That meant they likely had been bought second hand, which seemed to indicate he wanted to look affluent, but was not actually. That was in line with their theory that he was forming a new cult.
As he stepped further into the room, however, and the light from the windows struck him more fully, the impression that he was Piedren died. He was definitely no native, but Eyes if Dario knew where he was from. Perhaps he had a mixed heritage—half fire child would be Dario's best guess.
"So this is the notorious bodyguard about whom I have heard so much," the man said, and while the words were spoken correctly and clearly, he had the strangest accent Dario had ever heard. He could not identify it, and after years of traveling with Culebra, he knew accents.
The man walked across the room and crouched down in front of him, grabbing Dario's chin and forcing his head up. "You certainly do not look like much, though I guess under all that filth you might be passable."
Dario's retort died on his lips as the light struck the man's eyes just so, and what he had mistaken for simply a deep brown verging on black was actually a dark violet. His eyes were violet.
Violet eyes. Strange appearance. Unfamiliar accent. Eyes of the Basilisk, the bastard was a shadow child. That wasn't possible. Schatten was sealed up—nobody went in or out. Those who tried died, and brutally, if the stories from Pozhar were true.
"You are surprisingly quiet," the man said and roughly let him go.
"What is there to say?" Dario replied. "Nothing I say will get me what I want so why waste words?"
The man laughed and playfully smacked his cheek, making Dario's eyes water as that did nothing for his throbbing, almost-broken nose. "You are exactly as I was told. Though I was worried you would be difficult and so far that seems untrue."
"Do you know one of the hardest skills to learn as a bodyguard?"
Smirking, the man replied, "Learning to remain impartial? A skill you failed entirely. From what I have heard, you and your brother both failed at that. Did you take turns with the little prince? Did he enjoy being your little slut behind closed doors?"
Dario laughed. Did the man think he was going to get angry or defensive about that? Did he really think he was the first one to say such things? He and Granito had started out as poor farm boys in a dying village and climbed all the way to become bodyguards and lovers to the Basilisk Prince. Never mind that they had fucked each other long before Culebra joined them to form a triad. He was never going to feel guilty about crossing those lines, not when crossing them had brought him so much happiness.