The Kinshield Legacy (35 page)

“What a remarkable story,” Brodas said as he pushed his chair back from the dining table. “That you happened to be within earshot of those telling the tale in the tavern is further proof of my destiny to rule. Tyr, my friend, you’ve done exceedingly well.” Brodas gave him an appreciative nod. “Let’s relax in the sitting room and let our meal settle while we talk.” He gestured for Warrick and Toren to lead the way, and as he followed behind with Tyr, he turned the sword over in his hands, admiring the quality of not only the gems embedded in the hilt, but of the weapon itself. “The Rune Stones. They’re magnificent.” He looked up, unable to keep the smile from his face. “But don’t you think the sword’s a bit long for a Farthan?”

Sithral Tyr smirked and took the sword from Brodas’s hands. “Obviously, it’s a decorative piece, not meant to be used for spilling blood. Look at the craftsmanship and the elegant symbols etched into the blade.”

The servant arrived with a carafe of wine, four glasses and a plate of after-dinner cookies. He set the tray on a low table in the center of the room, and began to pour wine for everyone. Toren Meobryn declined with a raised hand. The steward left his glass empty on the table, and then bowed and left.

Brodas relaxed in his favorite chair. “Ornamental or not, that’s undoubtedly the finest weapon I’ve ever seen. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured to the sofa across from him, and Tyr sat down, but Toren remained standing, positioning himself beside Tyr with his hands loosely clasped in front of him to affect a casual stance. For all that Brodas and the Nilmarion pretended to be friends, Brodas had never trusted Tyr and felt certain the feeling was mutual.

“It’s enchanted,” Toren said. “I’d caution you against trying to use its magic. The thing is shuddersome.”

Tyr chuckled. “Toren believes the sword has its own mind and speaks to him through his thoughts.”

Toren narrowed his eyes at them. “Laugh if you like. I know what I heard. I won’t touch the vile thing.”

“I didn’t sense any magic within it,” Brodas said. ”Just the gems. Unless you’ve suddenly become a more powerful mage than I am, I don’t see cause for such melodrama. I’ll let my associates know that we’ve found the rune solver and they can stop looking.”

“Just be wary,” Tyr said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “He will try to escape.”

Warrick snorted. “I have little to fear from an eighty pound Farthan. Meobryn, on the other hand, must be quivering at the thought of him.”

Toren made a rude gesture at Warrick. “I’ll give you something to fear, wench.”

Brodas held up a hand. “Now, now. A determined man can be a formidable opponent, no matter his size.”

Warrick nodded, but his smile remained. “You speak truly, cousin.”

“I can keep my secret no longer,” Tyr said as he stood. “I’ve brought you not one gift, my friend, but two. The rune solver’s now in your custody, and with Toren’s help, I’ve managed to secure your prize.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a black pouch, then opened the top and pulled out a diamond necklace.

This was no ordinary diamond; it was Calewen’s Pendant. Brodas couldn’t mistake the rosy glow of Arek’s essence. “My word,” he breathed. He took the gold chain gently and laid the gemstone across his open palm.

According to Crigoth Sevae’s journal, Brodas could use this pendant to become Wayfarer. Once he discovered how to extract King Arek’s essence, he’d have access to all seven realms. He could travel to the beyonders’ realm to find the ultimate guardian: Ritol, the warrior demon. With Ritol as his champion, nothing could harm him, and no one would dare dispute his claim to the throne.

“There’s still the small matter of a token,” Tyr said as he handed Brodas the empty velvet pouch.

Brodas gave Tyr a polite smile as he returned the necklace to its pouch. He’d held Tyr’s leash for so long and had enjoyed commanding the Nilmarion’s repertoire of tricks, he hesitated to set the dog free. Returning Tyr’s token would mean the end of their relationship.

A hideous porcelain cat figurine with some religious significance, the token kept the Nilmarion nearby and behaving well. Brodas had Tyr’s precious bauble well-hidden. Almost a year ago, he’d promised to return it in exchange for Tyr’s help in claiming the throne. Now it looked like he wouldn’t have Tyr’s services for much longer, but he wouldn’t release his powerful ally a moment sooner than he had to. “You’re racing the horse, my friend,“ he said. ”Once we ascertain that the blacksmith is, indeed, the rune solver, I will return your token to you and your debt will be paid.”

Tyr scowled. “Stronghammer’s unwilling to disclose the secrets of the King’s Runes. It could take weeks to torture them from him, and my business in Nilmaria is long overdue. I’ve probably lost all of my clients to competitors in my long absence.”

“Worry not. I have ways of making people say what’s on their mind.”

“Then there’s no reason to delay. Perhaps I can offer you something else in exchange for my token’s immediate return.” He patted the sword lying across his knees.

Brodas looked at the sword on Tyr’s lap. “You aren’t thinking to trade that sword, are you? The Rune Stones are in it -- they belong to the king, and so they are part of our agreement.”

A crooked smile lifted one corner of Tyr’s thin mouth, warping the tattoo surrounding his lips. “I beg to differ,” Tyr said. “I agreed to help you claim the throne. Neither these gems nor the sword itself are required to achieve your goal.” He turned the sword and let his eyes slowly caress its length. “I’m sure this would fetch a good price in Nilmaria.”

 Brodas pinched his lips together. The weasel had him. “All right. Give me the sword -- and promise to do one more favor for me -- and I’ll give you the token.”

“We will make a simultaneous exchange.”

Brodas sighed. “I’ll be just a moment.” He hurried to the kitchen, opened the freezing box, and dug through paper-wrapped meats and vegetables until he found the container in which he’d stashed Tyr’s figurine.

Rust dotted the metal box. Layers of frost crusted its surface. He sent a wave of heat through his hands, causing the frost to melt and its water to drip through his fingers. With a rag, he wiped first the box, then his hands, and returned to the sitting room.

Tyr’s face glowed with anticipation as he rose from his chair and came forward. Brodas set the box on a table and lifted the lid. Tyr reached for it, but Brodas shut the lid quickly and pulled the box away.

“The sword?” he asked.

Tyr thrust the weapon into Brodas’s hands, not taking his eyes from the box. With a delicate touch, the Nilmarion opened the lid, reached in and lifted the cloth bundle, then carefully unwound the wrapping.

Brodas hadn’t looked at the figurine since he’d tucked it away. Once again, he was appalled at the hideousness of the thing, more despicable than he’d remembered.

The cat-shaped statuette was a dull grayish-green color, shiny with glaze, posed in a sitting position, its porcelain tail curled like a whore’s tongue around its body. Its eyes were not the slitted golden, green or blue of a true cat, but round and black. Looking into them sent a shiver down Brodas’s spine. The unnatural color did not disgust him as much as the sense that they were alive.

Tyr whispered and cooed in a stream of unintelligible words, perhaps a prayer in some heathen tongue. Brodas studied him, wondering why the figurine would be so important to him. Not only was it ugly, but it repulsed Brodas to his core unlike even the vilest, most gruesome beyonder ever had. Then he realized what was wrong with it; its eyes had what Tyr’s lacked. At last, Brodas understood the reason for the dead look in Tyr’s eyes and his refusal to return to his homeland without his token: the hideous cat figurine housed Sithral Tyr’s soul. The realization initially stunned him, but when he considered it further, he found it no longer surprised him. The Nilmarion had no sense of morality.

“Now, about that final task,” Brodas said. “There’s an orphan boy living among the rats in my cellar. I need him to quietly disappear.”

“You want him dead?” Tyr asked.

“Heavens no. He’s just a child. He could be useful to someone someday. Your slave-trader friends to the west would undoubtedly find much value in a fair-skinned, fair-haired boy. If you were to sell him, it could be quite profitable for us both.”

Tyr considered this for a moment, then said, “The risk to me is great. The ’ranter Calinor is still on my heels. He nearly caught me last time.”

“I would be willing to give you the larger share of the profit, say, sixty percent?”

“Might I remind you that the risk is fully mine,” Tyr said. “Sixty percent does not make up for that. The share of payment should reflect the share of risk.”

Brodas sighed. While he held the reins, Tyr’s game could be entertaining, but now he found the bartering tiresome. “Keep the entire profit for yourself, then. Just get the boy out of here.”

“I’ll do it,” Toren volunteered. “That way, Lord Tyr can return home without delay. Calinor wouldn’t suspect me of the deed; he thinks I’m a true warrant knight.”

“Perfect,” Brodas said, raising his glass to Toren.

From the back of the manor came a dull thud followed by a clatter.

Warrick shot to his feet. “What was that?” He bolted from the room.

Chapter 39

Risan landed on the roof awkwardly. He flailed his arms to gain his balance. His right foot, lower on the slope of the roof, hit on an angle. He fell down the pitch and over the edge. He landed on a pile of firewood stacked against the wall, scraping his skin and embedding what felt like dozens of splinters into it. The wooden logs rolled out from under him and brought him tumbling to the ground.

Dazed but still aware of where he was, he staggered to his feet. His ankle was on fire. He took a step and stumbled as the pain shot up his leg. Blast it. The pain he could suffer until he got to safety, but the ankle wouldn’t bear his weight. He limped as well as he could, hopping every other step, toward the gate. The closer he got to freedom, the more intense the burn in his ankle. He fell to his knees. All right, then, he would crawl.

“Hey! Stop!”

Risan hauled himself to his feet once again, desperate to make it beyond the gate. Footsteps pounded the grass behind him. He dragged his right foot and hopped on his left leg. It tired quickly. His muscles began to burn. He had to reach the gate, the first barrier to his freedom.

An arm grabbed him around the chest from behind. “No you don’t.”

Risan drew the fork from his pocket and sunk it into the man’s flesh as hard as he could. He felt it stop when it hit bone.

The man screamed, reaching for the fork.

Risan turned and jammed a thumb into his captor’s eye. There. A sword on his hip. Risan grabbed the hilt and drew.

The black-haired man jumped back, one eye bloody but still intact; the other, brilliant blue, glowed. Blood soaked his right sleeve. “Put the weapon down,” he warned from behind a thick mustache. “No one wants to hurt you.”

“Then let me be on my way,” Risan said, hopping backward toward the gate. “You turn around and go into house, and I will cause you no more pain.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You forget who is holding sword,” Risan said.

“Warrick, get back,” someone shouted.

The man backed away, then turned and ran. Risan looked up at the house. Another man with the same jet-black hair stood on the step holding a sword. Holding Aldras Gar.

Risan started to turn, intending – hoping – to get beyond the brick wall.

A light flashed. A line split the air and widened, revealing the most intense blackness Risan had ever seen. A clawed hand reached into the real world from... beyond.

He can summon beyonders.
Risan staggered backward away from the emerging monster. An arm, a leg, a fiend’s bulbous gray head, and the smell of sulfur burst forth. The thing stood upright like a man, its skin gray with a film of white mucus sliding down its length. Where the clumps of mucus dripped onto the ground, ice crystals formed and spread. Wisps of frosty steam floated outward and disappeared into the air.

Gripping the sword two-handed, Risan plunged it into the creature’s belly. It screamed and flailed. White mucus splattered onto Risan’s hands, so cold that it burned like cinders from a fire. The splatters turned to frost and spread, growing like vines across his hands, racing up his arms to his shoulders. He could no longer feel his hands or wrists. The sword fell to the ground. His shirt stiffened with cold. Risan tried to run toward the house to escape the creature. His foot slipped. He stumbled, went down to his knees. The numbing cold spread across his torso. It squeezed his chest and slowed his heart. He could barely breathe. Just when it started to creep up his neck, a luscious, thick warmth washed over him. He fell blissfully into darkness.

Chapter 40