Belden Kaylaros was
bored.
The people close to
him knew that only one thing in the world was more dangerous. When Belden
was bored, trouble was never far behind. He knew this as well, and
accepted it. In a way, he looked
forward to the inevitable signal that would herald his return to a
life of death-defying challenge. His
blood never burned hotter than when he was shedding it in the name
of raw adventure.
But this time, when
trouble came, it affected his kids. Suddenly he wasn't bored anymore. Suddenly
he was mad. And those close to him knew that nothing in the world was
more dangerous.
* * *
It started one winter's
day, as he was sitting in his study at Pierroc Royale. His desk was piled
with
papers that required the Baron's signature. Normally, the mundane matters
of running the barony were
handled by Jaenyth, but on some things, Derrek was insistent. The yearly
accounts for his holding had to
be reviewed by him personally. His eyes stung from hours of reading
the lists of every single item in the
households of each of his subjects. He had to make sure that no peasant
had more oxen than was his due.
It was mind-numbingly tedious work.
Silverwing, not helpful
in the least, sprawled across the end of the bed, snoring. Every so often,
his
wings and tail would twitch as he pursued golden drakes through shady
wooded groves. His mate Glory
had flown recently, and she was brooding over her latest nest of eggs.
Silverwing went about with his
chest puffed out proudly, but not even his devotion to Glory and the
pride of impending fatherhood had
prevented him from going after Amelia's green Clover when the younger
drake flew her own mating
flight a few months past. Only extremely timely intervention by Jaenyth
prevented both Silverwing and
Belden from engaging in behavior which, though undeniably delightful,
would have proved disastrous for
them both.
It was not the first
time he'd been tempted by the nearness of the copper-haired druid. Ten
years
ago, he and Amelia had shared a remarkable night in the woods. Though
he dearly loved his wife, his
mind occasionally wandered to those memories. Amelia had given him
a son, a fine agile lad who was
already showing a talent for the bow. For the first several years of
his life, he had been raised in the
woods with only his mother and the forest creatures for company. But
Amelia knew that her son needed
to have other people around, other children to play with, a father
to look up to. And so, with Jaenyth's
dubious permission, Amelia and Brian had come to live in Wolfhaven.
Brian became fast friends with
Derrek and Aylara's son Alan, and with Belden's great-grandson Dorlyn,
son of the Baron and Baroness
of Redhall. Those friendships had a cost, though. Brian was a good-looking
boy, with hair the color of
autumn leaves and eyes that ranged from forest green to bright sea-blue
depending on his mood. His
elven heritage gave him attractive features and pointed ears, while
his human blood made him tall for his
years. The combination caught the eye of the giggly Princess Alyssa,
Alan's younger sister. With
maidenly determination, she decided that Brian was destined to be her
"honey", and wasted no
opportunity to follow him around and gaze after him with longing sighs.
Silverwing snorted
and rolled over, breaking Belden out of his reviere. He realized that he'd
been
thinking about his son instead of finishing the accounts. He shook
his head and picked up a sheaf of
papers. It was hardly his fault. The paperwork was dull, and Brian
was a fine son. He handled the stigma
of being known as Belden Kaylaros' bastard with ease, having inherited
his mother's knack of not caring
what society thought. Amelia herself was still thought of as Belden
Kaylaros' mistress, though nothing
had happened between them since that one incident. It was unfortunate
for her. Amelia was an amazingly
passionate, responsive woman who needed the attention of a man. But
nobody in Algareth was willing to
risk Belden's wrath. He would be pleased if Amelia found someone, because
she was a close friend and a
worthwhile woman, but in a secret corner of his heart he was glad she
hadn't. He would miss her. After
some initial difficulties, she and Jaenyth became good friends. Amelia
fit well into their household. The
gardens flourished under her care, and she handled the kitchen and
housekeeping tasks that Jaenyth had
little patience for. It was like having two wives. Without the bedroom
bonuses, of course. Even Belden
Kaylaros did not dare touch the woman widely believed to be Belden
Kaylaros' mistress. Only one man
had the outrageous gall to do that. A few months ago, Amelia had given
birth to her second child, Todd.
During her pregnancy, Jaenyth openly suspected Belden of being involved.
He denied it, of course, but
there was a slinking doubt in his mind dating back to a winter's night
when he had come home extremely
drunk after an evening at the Whispering Nymph with Brennis, Kev, and
a few of the younger knights.
Jaenyth had been away in Annis-Mara, attending some family function.
Barely able to walk, he had
needed Amelia's help to get upstairs. He remembered her capable
hands undressing him, tucking him
into his bed. He couldn't remember anything after that, but when Amelia
began to show, he wondered.
He never quite dared ask. But it turned out that the child's father
was Harry. Of course. A lot of people
shook their heads in amazement in anticipation of how Amelia's sons
would turn out.
He finished the last
of the accounts and stretched. Silverwing mimicked the motion, then bolted
abruptly awake as another drake appeared in the room. It was Brennis'
blue, Squire, and he was
chittering anxiously. A note was tied haphazardly to his leg.
Belden raised an arm
and the drake landed, claws digging deep. He untied the massage and unrolled
it. His granddaughter's normally precise handwriting was ragged and
uneven. It was a short message, but
it was enough to chill him to the bone.
Assassins just tried to kill my children!
Onyx was a professional
thief and ran Derrek's secret intelligence network. It was understandable
that she would have made enemies in the course of her career. But Onyx
herself would not be an easy
target for assassins. Her children, eight-year-old Dorlyn and baby
Rachel, were more vulnerable.
Brennis was a good
man, a strong knight and a brilliant tactician, but he was not equipped
to deal
with a situation like this. Belden snagged his swordbelt from where
it hung on the back of his chair and
wrapped his hand around the magic pendant that would take him to Redhall
in the blink of an eye. He
guessed that the Holts were behind it. It had been years since they'd
had trouble from Holtun, because he
had single-handedly wiped out most of the ruling family. It looked
like he might have missed one.
He appeared outside
of Redhall, since his grandson-in-law still was slightly uneasy about magic.
Brennis did have a sense of humor, though, and the customary arrival
spot for teleporters was a small
clearing with a padded bench for those who needed to recover from the
trip. Belden had no time to rest.
He headed for the castle at a run.
The guards recognized
him and let him in. One of Brennis' younger squires told him that the Baron
and his men were out patrolling the north woods, looking for signs
of the assassin. The Baroness was in
the nursery with the children. He took the stairs two at a time.
His granddaughter
whirled to face him as he opened the door. True to her bloodline, she had
a knife
ready. Her green eyes were wide and dangerous, her dark hair whipping
around her face. Dorlyn, face
solemn beneath too-long blond bangs, sat in a rocker with his feet
dangling off the floor.
"Oh, it's you," Onyx
said. "How ya doin', old man?"
He looked at her closely,
realizing that her tone was a mask for her fear. Without a word, he walked
over to her and took the knife out of her hand. She flung her arms
around him and pressed her face
against his chest. Her shoulders shook.
"They almost killed
them," she gasped.
He stroked her hair,
keeping an eye on the window in case someone should show up to finish the
job. Dorlyn looked at him seriously. In her cradle, Rachel cooed.
"Who?" he asked.
"I don't know, damn
it," she said, brushing an angry hand across her eyes. "It was so damn
fast!
The bastard got away! Bren's out looking for him now, but they won't
find anything."
"Tell me what happened."
"Two attempts," she
said, regaining control of herself but not moving away. "Bren took Dorlyn
riding. He heard something and got his shield up in time to stop a
crossbow bolt. He sent Squire back to
warn me, so I came in to check on Rachel. She was having her nap. When
I opened the door, I saw some
guy standing over her, holding a pillow on her head. I tagged him with
a knife, but he got out the
window and over the wall. When I started to go after him, another crossbow
bolt missed me by inches."
"Is Rachel all right?"
"I think so. He didn't
get enough time."
"What about you?"
"I want them dead."
He gave her a crooked
grin. "Don't worry. They will be."
"I bet you think it's
the Holts," she accused.
"Well, why not?" he
asked defensively.
"There aren't any
Holts left, you old geezer."
"So I'm thorough."
"Well, whoever it
is, they've got to go." She held out an arm and Dorlyn ran to her side.
"I may not
be the world's best mom, but these are my babies, damn it! I'm not
letting anyone take them away from
me."
"You're not alone,
kiddo. You're not alone."
Onyx ruffled her son's
hair, then did a rare thing. She glanced up at him and smiled. "Thank you,
Belden," she whispered. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened
to my little ones."
He smoothed her hair,
feeling somewhat embarrassed and self-conscious. He and Onyx rarely
expressed the deep bond they felt, covering it with banter and insults.
He loved her. She was his only
reminder of a daughter he'd never known, his only tie to a life long
changed. She was half-elven, but her
elven blood did not come from him. Her mother had been conceived when
Belden Kaylaros, reluctant
hero, had been only Belden, human foundling. Onyx's human heritage
linked her with the royal family of
Dalanar. Not only did she remind him of her mother, but of his twin
sister, who he'd likewise never
known. Deirdre, whose birth gave him the chance to live, had become
a great spy. He suspected that his
sister would have approved of this young woman. Onyx was more valuable
to him that she would ever
know.
"Are you gonna stab
'em in the eye, Granpa Belden?" Dorlyn asked shyly. The lad was in awe
of the
mythical hero that was both his great-grandfather and the father of
one of his best friends.
"Do you think I should,
Dor?"
The boy chewed on
his lip, glancing at the crib. "They tried to hurt Rachie too, and we haven't
even
got to know her yet. Maybe they need to be stabbed in both eyes."
"Both eyes. All right.
As soon as I catch up with them, that's what I'll do."
Dorlyn grinned and
went over the whisper into the crib. "Didja hear that, sis? Both eyes!"
"Bren's going to think
you're a bad example to the kids," Onyx said.
"I've been telling
you that for years. I was a bad influence on you before you even knew I
was
alive." He let go of her and went to the window.
A standard, nondescript
crossbow bolt was stuck in the frame. He looked around. Seeing no
enemies, he reached out and pulled the bolt free. The tip was smeared
with a greenish-black paste. Part
of it had rubbed off on the frame, but he knew poison when he saw it.
He set it on the table, frowning.
"One of these days,
you're going to have to raise a kid yourself," she was saying. "Then you'll
know
what a pain it is. It's not easy to raise them up right with disreputable
sneaks like you coming around and
filling their heads with notions. Both eyes indeed!"
"Listen to you. You
sound like an old fussy nanny."
"Gods, I do, don't
I?"
"Better do something
about that."
"You're right."
"Always."
"Look out," she teased.
"You're starting to sound like Harry again. One might think you're letting
this hero business go to your head."
"I'm no hero," he
protested. "How many times do I have to say it?"
She laughed and spread
her hands. "I'm not getting into this arguement with you. It's like the
one
Harry and Wildfire always used to have about who left who. There's
no way to win."
He snorted. "Anyway,
hopefully someday I will have kids to raise. Brian's great to have around,
but
I'm looking forward to having some with Jaenyth."
"Not for lack of trying,
I'm sure," she said, raising an eyebrow.
He grinned. "Hell,
no! If practice made perfect, we'd have a hundred kids by now."
"Practice what?" Dorlyn
asked brightly, apparently recovered from his scare.
Onyx stepped on Belden's
booted foot as he opened his mouth to answer. It didn't really hurt, but
he
chose diplomacy and coughed instead.
"How is she?" Onyx
asked.
"Sleeping," Dorlyn
said. "When's she gonna be old enough to play?"
"Not for a few years.
She's still a baby."
"She better not grow
up like 'Lyssa," Dorlyn muttered darkly. "'Lyssa's a brat."
"Count your blessings,
boy," Belden said. "If not for your father, you'd be betrothed to her."
"Uh-uh. She's sweet
on Brian."
Belden groaned and
shook his head so his russet hair flopped in his face. "Poor kid."
"Oh, come on, if he
grows up at least halfway like you, he'll love having a pretty girl chase
after
him."
"Yeah, but it'll be
for all the wrong reasons. She wants to marry him."
Onyx laughed. "Better
not let Jaenyth hear you talking like that."
Dorlyn looked puzzled,
but said nothing. Belden patted him on the head, recalling how much he
had
hated that as a boy and noting by Dorlyn's squirm that he felt the
same. It was funny the way a person
changed between childhood and adulthood. The more time he spent around
Brian and the other kids, the
more he realized how precious they were. A sudden fierce protective
urge swept through him. While he
drew breath, no one would threaten these kids.
Some of that fierceness
must have shown in his grim expression, because they stared at him with
identical looks of alarm. He quickly masked his emotions and gave his
granddaughter a one-armed hug
while squeezing Dorlyn's shoulder.
"Don't worry," he
said. "I'll take care of it."
"Fourcity?" Onyx asked.
"Best place to start.
You can always send one of the drakes to me if something comes up."
"Be careful," she
said.
He chuckled. "Me?
Careful?"
"Nobody can hurt Granpa
Belden," Dorlyn said admiringly.
"No," Onyx corrected.
"He's been hurt plenty of times. He just can't be killed."
"You be careful too,"
he said, suddenly serious. "That isn't jam on the end of that bolt. I don't
want
to see any of you get hurt."
* * *
He cinched the strap
that held his spare quiver to his backpack. For this trip, he elected to
leave
behind the marvelous energy bow that needed neither arrow nor string.
Ordinary wood and steel was too
good to waste on the scum of Fourcity, let alone the precious starfire
magic. If any of the dogsbodies
were involved, he would have a bit more of a challenge, but he had
killed them with his bare hands
before. He still shivered when he recalled a blood-soaked night when
he took on the dogsbody leader of a
mercenary troupe that had attacked an orphanage. He had left the leader
chained to a tree, one arm
wrenched off, face and body a shapeless bludgeoned mass, mouth stuffed
with assorted parts of choice
anatomy. The savagery with which he'd fought the dogsbody was unlike
anything he'd ever experienced.
He was taking little
on this trip. Just his weapons, armor, and the item of teleportation. Not
even
Silverwing was going along. He left his baronial signet, but kept his
wedding band.
Suited up, ready to
go, he wandered to the window and tried to figure out what he would say
to
Jaenyth. She was currently in the woods surrounding the castle, hunting
a troublesome pack of giant
ferrets that had been raiding the henhouses. Below, in the yard, Amelia
was sitting on the grass, the sun
setting her copper hair ablaze. Around her was an array of seeds, herbs,
dried fruits, and the other things
she used in the making of her potions and remedies. Nearby, Todd lay
sleeping in a woven reed basket.
A yearling fawn dozed next to him. The doe and stag grazed clamly on
the shrubs at the edge of the
yard, ignoring the antics of a half-grown wolf cub.
Belden first ran into
Moonchaser while out riding one night. The cub's mother was dead in a trap,
and he could not leave him there to starve. Brian's birthday had been
coming up, and the boy had been
delighted with the gift of a furry, friendly, bundle of mischief. The
two were practically inseperable.
Belden watched his
son, criticizing his stance as he hurled a stick. The stick sailed over
his mother's
head. Moonchaser, who was long on enthusiasm but short on foresight,
bounded after it, scattering dried
blackberries. Amelia shrieked in surprise. Moonchaser saw her at the
last minute, scrambled his legs
under him, and tried to jump. He was too low, and she grabbed him out
of the air. His weight bowled
her over and she fell on her back. Her skirts flew up, revealing her
legs to mid-thigh. She didn't have the
athletic legs of a warrior like Jaenyth, but they were still quite
nicely shaped. Very pretty legs that he
should not be looking at.
Moonchaser leapt away,
looking embarrassed, while Brian doubled over in laughter and Amelia sat
up, straightening her skirts, trying to look stern but failing. Belden
could not make out the words as she
reprimanded her son, but her smile belied any real anger. Moonchaser
crowded behind Brian, hanging
his head, but his tail was shaking with suppressed wags.
Finished with her
scolding, Amelia began picking up the mess of her herbs. Brian and Moonchaser
retreated to the edge of the clearing to play.
Shaking his head,
smiling, Belden started to turn away to finish his preparations. Then he
saw
something that riveted his attention.
Moonchaser was frozen
in place, hackles raised, pelt bristling, lips skinned back from teeth
that
were very sharp and not the least playful as he stared into the forest.
Brian reacted instantly to the
invisible threat, leaping to one side. And so it was that the dagger
which had been aimed for his throat
plunged into his shoulder instead. Brian yelled in pain, but he kept
his wits. Even as he fell to one knee,
he fumbled for a knife of his own.
Before Amelia could
even get up, Belden was in motion. He placed one hand on the windowsill
and
vaulted out, never minding that it was a three-story drop, trusting
to his incredible reflexes and uncanny
luck to protect him. By the time he hit the ground, Arelon was silver
fire springing from his fist. He
raced across the grass.
Amelia leapt to her
feet, screaming her son's name as she dropped a stone into the pocket of
her
sling and began to whip it around her head. The three deer sprang lightly
to stand over the basket holding
baby Todd. Clover streaked skyward.
Moonchaser dove through
the bushes. Leaves and branches flew everywhere. Belden heard a man's
voice raised in alarm. Moments later, as Brian was struggling to stand
and Belden had crossed half the
distance, a man burst through the bushes with Moonchaser snapping at
his legs. He was dressed in
mottled green and brown, forest colors, and he held a long thin sword
as he charged toward the half-
elven boy.
Amelia loosed her
slingstone and it whizzed harmlessly into the trees. She cried out in fear
and
frustration. The man thrust.
Brian brought up his
knife and managed to parry the blow, but he was using the wrong hand and
the
force knocked the blade from his grip. Moonchaser tore a ragged gash
in the man's leg and suffered a
heavy kick in the ribs. The wolf cub yelped and stumbled.
The man advanced again
on the unarmed, wounded boy, face tight with desperation as he raised the
sword.
"No!" Belden knew
he was still too far away. Even if he threw Arelon, it would be too late.
Amelia
screamed.
The blow never landed.
Out of nowhere, an arrow transfixed the man through both temples. His
back arched and the sword fell. He raised both hands, feeling the feathers
and barbed steel point on either
side of his head. His face contorted hideously. He toppled to the side
like a felled tree. The point of the
arrow lodged in the earth, nailing his head to the ground.
Belden skidded to
a halt beside the dead man and slowly turned his head. At the edge of the
clearing,
chin raised defiantly, hair stirred by a mild wind, stood a tall elfwoman
in hunting leathers. A bow was
in her hand, another arrow already set to the string. It almost seemed
that she was surrounded by a
nimbus of golden light. Their eyes met, and he felt a huge, foolish,
proud grin spread across his face.
Jaenyth never let him down.
Amelia dashed up beside
him and threw herself on the ground beside Brian. The boy was gasping,
blood staining his sleeve and shirtfront. Belden swiftly knelt, setting
aside his sword, and steadied the boy
as he started to collapse.
"Oh, Aslan," Amelia
moaned as she got a good look at the wound. Her frantic green eyes sought
Belden.
The weapon jutting
from Brian's shoulder was a black and white dagger with a motto inscribed
around the hilt. The motto was as hated and familiar as ever.
I have sought him. I have found him.
"Fourcity," he muttered,
feeling his fists clench. "It isn't Onyx's kids they want. They're after
mine."
* * *
Some places never changed.
Fourcity was one of them. And some people never changed, no matter
how they might seem to on the outside.
It had been a long
time since Belden Kaylaros crept across a rooftop in the dead of night,
his face
smeared with black greaspaint to cut the glare of the nearly-full moon.
He was grimly amused at how
easily he shed the skin of a nobleman and reverted to his thiefly origins.
Hadn't his first views of most of
Andur been from dark rooftops? He'd arrived in the teeming city of
White Sands, a place of rough
sailors and mercenaries. All of his money had been spent on ship's
passage from Dalanar, and to
augment his meagre finances, he had adapted to the life of a burlgar
with uncanny talent. His instincts
remained true. Though the roof beneath him was old and creaky, his
movements were nearly soundless.
Below him, the streets
of Fourcity were alive with activity. The respectable merchants had long
since
closed up their shops and retired to well-lit rooms behind well-locked
doors. Like a werewolf, Fourcity
changed with the arrival of night. Shadowed doorways harbored thugs,
thin rolls of foul-smelling weed
dangling from the corners of their mouth. Harlots lingered on corners,
the warm summer night
permitting them to reveal most of their charms. In many cases, the
women were underfed, and what
should have been enticing curves were bony mockeries of seduction.
Their faces all bore the same
desperate, tired, haggard look. More than a few held squalling infants.
Groups of armed men swaggered
down the narrow streets, talking too loudly and never letting their
hands stray far from ready blades.
Belden felt his lip
curl in disgust. Fourcity was the Zardi of Andur, except that it lacked
Zardi's
vibrancy. In the Haven city where a person could buy anything, the
people were dangerous, but they
were alive and exciting. Here in Fourcity, the people seemed hopeless
and dead inside.
He suspected that
it was partly due to the dogsbodies. For some reason, Fourcity harbored
large
amounts of the fiendish creatures who lived off of the fear and misery
of others. He knew more about
them than he cared too. One of his dearest friends, Wildfire, had been
a victim of a clan of dogsbodies
for most of her young life. The creature he had slaughtered that horrible
night outside a burning
orphanage had been one of Wildifre's so-called cousins. Wildfire's
daughter, Belynda, who had been
named for Belden in a roundabout sort of way, was blessed with the
gift to see the creatures. Belden had
no such talent. Nor did he possess a magic blade like Harry's dagger
that reacted to the presence of a
dogsbody. All he had was his warrior's instinct. Lucky for him, that
was enough. He could detect certain
differences in the way some of the people below moved, and guessed
that they were the ones that
harbored hideous demons beneath their masks of humanity.
But the dogsbodies
were not his targets tonight. Not specifically. If any of them happened
to get in
his way, he would slash them to bits without a moment's regret, but
tonight he was after other game.
Assassins were his prey tonight.
The injury of his
son still seethed inside of him. He could not get the image of Amelia out
of his
mind. She had not said a word, hadn't needed to. All she'd done was
raise her tearful, stricken face to
him. He'd knelt beside her as she called upon Aslan to heal their son,
and Brian's small hand had closed
on his in a firm grip.
Jaenyth had seen the
fierce deterimination in his eyes, and had not challenged him when he told
her
he was going to Fourcity. She was a strong-willed woman, but she was
also wise, and knew when no
amount of talking would change his mind. She simply touched his cheek
and said, "Go." Minutes later,
he had arrived at the city in the midst of the war-torn Duchies.
He crawled to the edge of the rooftop and studied the gap between
this building and the next. It
didn't look too forbidding, so he rose to a crouch and launched himself
into the air. Catlike, barely
dislodging a single shingle, he landed on the other roof. Two buildings
farther down was his target, the
headquarters of the Fourcity Freemen, the assassins' guild.
It was a morbidly
large building, but the main industry of Fourcity seemed to be crime and
murder.
Three stories of grimy brick rose above a shuttered and desolate tailor's
shop on one side and a noisy
tavern on the other. Across the street, an old guardhouse loomed forbiddingly
in the moonlight, the
broken-out slats on several of its windows making Belden think briefly
of an old dog, missing a few teeth
but still capable of a good bite.
He dropped to the
roof of the tailor's shop. It was extremely loose and shaky. He slowed
his
progress to a bug's pace, feeling his way carefully from one board
to another. Most of his attention was
focused on the guildhall ahead of him. Mellow candlelight gleamed behind
some of the shutters, and once
or twice he glimpsed a shadow moving in front of a window.
A brief but tempting
urge to just wipe out everybody in the whole bloody city nagged at the
back of
his mind. With effort, he dismissed it. There might, against all odds,
be one or two decent, innocent
people in Fourcity. He had no trouble killing criminals, but he didn't
particularly want to kill anyone who
didn't deserve it.
The wall of the tailor's
shop butted right up against the sturdy brick of the guildhall. He saw
that it
would be an easy matter to get right under one of the windows, reach
up to the sill, and haul himself up.
If the shutters were locked, he would have a slight problem, but he'd
picked locks in worse situations
before.
He smiled sadly as
he remembered one of those times. He and Harry had been locked in a dungeon
cell together. Belden's hands had been encased in one of the devious
dwarven thief-balls, a heavy metal
contraption with barbed finger holes, locking around the wrist. Harry's
entire head had been locked in a
heavy hood with a gag attatchment. Somehow, the idle son of a Pandathan
mage had learned to pick
locks and wiggle free of bonds. But, while the simple wrist bindings
had been no trouble, he'd been
unable to get the hood off. His best weapon, his voice, was efficiently
silenced. And Belden's best
weapons, his agile hands, were likewise useless.
The situation had
looked impossible, except for a couple of small bonuses. While in White
Sands,
Belden had gotten a magical tattoo of a lockpick on his lower right
calf. Though that leg had been
crushed, broken, and mangled more times that he cared to remember,
that night it had saved them. Harry
had been able to get at it, and partially free Belden from the ball.
After that, it was child's play to free
themselves, escape from the Overlord's dungeon, rejoin Wildfire and
Diana, and get away. What none of
them had known at the time was that their escape had been planned and
permitted. Blade, the second-in-
command of the Overlord's own son, had really been an old friend of
theirs in disguise. Before Belden
had learned the truth, he'd killed her. Many times over the intervening
years, others had tried to
convince him that he wasn't responsible for her death, but he refused
to believe them. In another world,
one without a Jaenyth Maran, Artreide might have been the perfect woman
for him. He would never
forgive himself for what he'd done.
In the distance, a
gout of flame roared skyward. He dismissed it with a shrug. There were
a few
alchemists in Fourcity, and occasionally the more volatile aspects
of the profession came into play. Even
if the fire spread to burn down the whole city, it wouldn't be that
great of a loss.
He shook the memories of Artreide out of his head with some difficulty,
lingering on the time they
had played hide-and-seek in the secret passages of the Southern Baron's
castle while still clad in brief
swimsuits, lithe bodies oiled and speckled with sand. She had been
topless, and despite his extraordinary
nightvision, he had "accidentally" let his hands wander into forbidden
territory while seeming to feel for
the wall. Taking a deep breath and forcing that image to retreat, he
studied the windows, looking for one
that was unlit. Spotting a likely target, he made his way across the
sagging roof.
A board gave way beneath
his questing hand with a damp cracking sound and he froze, cautiously
pulling his fingers out of the opening. If anyone should happen to
open a shutter now and look out, he
would show up very well in the moonlight. The sound seemed to draw
no unwanted notice, however, so
he continued onward.
The fire on the other
side of town appeared to be spreading. If he was lucky, it might attract
attention away from his activities. He selected a likely-looking window
and gingerly stood. The boards
dipped alarmingly beneath his weight. He reached for the sill.
I don't suppose
you're in Fourcity trying to kill off the assassins' guild, a voice
said out of nowhere.
With the stunning
reflexes of a man with speed as his middle name, Belden jerked in alarm
and drew
his sword. The sudden movement knocked him off-balance. He took a step
back, realized his mistake
even as the loose boards gave way, and plunged ass-first through the
roof of the tailor's shop with a
splintery crash.
Even as he landed
in a dusty and abandoned bin of cloth scraps, he realized two things. First,
that
the voice had come from inside his head rather than the window above
him, as he'd initially thought.
Second, that the voice was one he recognized, the smooth, smug, and
confident tones of Harold Ethelbald
the Third.
Harry, he thought,
trying to cover his embarrassment and the sudden urge to sneeze. What
the hell
do you want?
Looking for you,
Harry replied. Where are you?
On a roof outside
the Fourcity Freemen's hall, he lied, glancing up through the ragged
hole. No one
had opened any shutters to investigate, so maybe his misstep had gone
unnoticed.
Beld, I don't have
a lot of time. Listen. The assassins didn't do it. Somebody else made it
look like
they did, so you'd go after them. You're being tricked. Used.
Belden had known Harry
to lie whenever it suited him, and suspected he'd been the victim of
Harry's lies himself from time to time, but he knew his friend well
enough to know that Harry would not
lie about something this important.
Who are they?
he thought, his tone cold and deadly enough to chill his own bones.
He heard Harry's mental
sigh, the wordless thought of a man who was up to his eyes in shit and
improvising with all his might. The Tristani, he said. It's hard
to explain, but they're after me, and
they've gone after your kids to keep you from helping me. As long
as you're on wild goose chases all over
Fourcity, you're out of the way.
What did you do?
Belden thought accusingly.
I made a bet with
Tristan, Harry admitted.
Trust Harry to never
give a complete answer. Belden had seen it before. It annoyed the hell
out of
Derrek. Harry would drop some leading statement, and wait happily for
a prompt from his audience
before getting to the good stuff.
He started to deliver
the desired response, when the import of that remark struck him. You
made a
bet with who?!
Tristan, Harry
said in a tone that meant he thought it should be perfectly clear. You
know, god of
thieves?
I know! How did
you ... never mind.
And he's not just
after you and Onyx. There was an attempt on Lillith and Warren just a few
minutes
ago.
What was this bet?
Belden asked. He had a familiar feeling that he often felt when discussing
things
with Harry, a feeling of overpowering odds and schemes far beyond the
range of any nice normal life.
Oh, just my soul
against immortality, Harry threw off nonchalantly. Remember that
little Cataclysm
we took care of a while ago? Well, it wasn't the real thing. The
real test is still happening, and Tristan
doesn't think we can make it. So we've got a little side bet going.
I don't know why
I even talk to you.
Anyway, he's afraid
that I'm winning, so he's doing everything he can to mess things up. He's
got
his clerics busy trying to interfere with my people, and also to
get rid of all the competition. See, Beld,
the fewer non-Tristani thieves there are, the more work there is
for his clerics, and the more power he
gets.
So what are you
doing to stop it?
Not much, Harry
admitted. I'm in jail.
In jail?!
Harry sighed again.
In Pandathaway. I've been framed for the murder of a Councilmember.
Belden covered his
eyes with one hand and groaned. Please tell me you don't want me to
break you
out.
No, I'm fine. I'm
only staying in here because Luke'll be mad if I escape. I can't afford
to piss him
off any more right now.
So what do you want me to do? Take on a whole Tristani temple by myself?
Well, now that
you mention it ...
Damn it, Harry
...
What's the matter?
Too much for you?
No! he flared.
Let me handle them. I still owe them for the kids.
Oh, by the way.
A lot of Tristan's power comes from the amount of stolen merchandise stored
in the
temples. Toss it out in the street or something.
When I get done
here, you're going to sit down and explain this whole thing to me,
Belden thought.
I'll try to be
out of jail by then, Harry promised. Always one to have the last
word, he cut the
telepathic link.
"Shit," Belden said,
untangling himself from the rubble of his rapid descent. He sheathed his
sword
and brushed the worst of the dust from his clothes.
The Tristani. Now
he wasn't just dealing with scum-of-the-earth thieves and assassins. He
was
dealing with scum-of-the-earth thieves and assassins who had the power
of a god behind them.
He opened the crooked
door of the shop a tiny crack, peering both ways down the narrow street.
Next door, the Freemen went blissfully about their business, never
knwoing how close they had come to
complete annihilation. Wraithlike, still shedding bits of thread and
cloth, Beldedn slipped down the street
and into a welcoming alley.
He had a bad moment
when he realized that he didn't know where the Tristan temple was, but
the
problem was solved when he remembered that this was Fourcity, after
all, one of the few places where a
temple to the god of thieves could operate unmolested by the city guard.
The governing of the city was in
the hands of the representatives of the four dukes, and the loyalty
of the guards was as changeable as
Wildfire's moods. With a minimum of searching the decrepit back alleys,
he soon located the entrance to
the temple.
It was, on the surface
at least, a plain building of weatherbeaten dark stone. The doorway was
flanked by two pillars vaguely shaped like gigantic knives. Since the
building itself was rather small,
Belden assumed that the bulk of the temple rooms lay underground.
He started toward
it, but faded quickly back into the shadows at the sound of two men approaching
on feet nearly as silent as his own. One of them wore the garb of a
Tristani priest, but the other was clad
in a simple outfit of mottled green and brown, virtually identical
to the clothes of the man Jaenyth had
shot through the head. That one was favoring one arm, and as they turned
to enter the temple, Belden
caught sight of a wide bloody bandage wrapped around his chest. He
recalled Onyx's claim that she had
tagged Rachel's would-be assassin with a knife. He moved toward them,
so quietly that he almost seemed
to float. His sharp ears caught a fragment of a sentence just before
the door was opened.
"-- bitch got me with
a knife --"
Those few words were
enough for Belden. The soles of his boots whispered against the cobblestones
as he broke into a run. The two men never saw him coming. The doors
closed just as he passed through
them, plunging them all into darkness lit only by a lantern at the
end of a hall. The men had only just
realized that they were not alone in the hallway when Arelon sang through
the shadows, slicing deep into
the neck of the man in green and brown. The cut was not enough to sever
his head, but he toppled to the
floor amid a horrible gurgle of blood.
The other man reacted
with a swiftness that surprised Belden. He parried a lightning-fast knife
thrust
and drove Arelon through robes and armor and into vulnerable flesh.
The priest choked but did not die,
striking again with the knife. The point of the blade dug into Belden's
armor, leaving him untouched.
Before he could sound an alarm, Belden yanked his sword out and drove
it home again. The man
crumpled.
Standing over the
fallen bodies of his foes, bloody sword in hand, Belden suppressed an urge
to
throw back his head and howl. The Tristani would regret crossing his
path, if any of them lived long
enough to regret anything.
Head up, alert, he
pressed further into the darkness of the temple.
* * *
The Tristani never
knew what hit them. He tore through them like a wolf in a sheepfold, an
avenging
spirit that seemed to blaze with silver flame. His memories of that
night were mercifully dim, except for
a few vivid images. He remembered one young priest, barely more than
a boy, who landed not just one
but two telling blows before Arelon opened him from navel to backbone.
He remembered two of them
that would not go down, fighting him with the inhuman ferocity of the
dogsbodies until at last he beat
them to the ground. He remembered a hag-faced woman whose crossbow
bolt grazed his head, tracking a
thin line of blood in his hair. He remembered a scything door trap
that would have cleaved him in half if
not for an amazingly acrobatic leap and roll. He didn't know how many
of the Tristani he cut down as he
roared through their temple like a whirlwind, but he remembered a circle
of them closing on him with
wickedly long-bladed knives, and he remembered stepping over the huddled
bodies, still in a circle, his
armor pierced in numerous places.
He remembered the
great vault, filled with coins and items stolen from countless victims,
and he
remembered several trips through the bloody corridors, his shield held
like a tray heaped with goods
which he cast into the streets and the waiting hands of dozens of wretched
commoners. He remembered
them following him, yelling with joy like children at Yuletide as they
rolled in the piles of coins, stuffing
their pockets.
On one of his trips
outside, he remembered a great firey glow in the sky, as if the city was
burning.
He paid it no mind, for what was a city in flames compared to the fire
of rage that burned undiminished
in his heart? Somewhere, the Antris, the high priest, had escaped him.
He remembered a fleeting glimpse
of a tall figure in black ducking behind a tapestry, but he had been
unable to find the catch that released
the secret panel.
When the vault was
full of poor folk filling sacks and hand-pulled carts, and the vault was
rapidly
emptying, he tore down the tapestry and ran his fingers across the
wall. Panting, eyes stinging from
blood and sweat, heedless of the countless wounds that throbbed, refusing
to think about the way some of
their blades had glistened with that odd greenish-black substance,
he had at last triggered the catch and
the panel slid open.
He raced toward the
light of a flickering candle, moving so fast despite his many injuries
that the
crossbow bolts triggered by his rapid and careless passage struck the
wall behind him in a series of
impacts. In a tiny room at the far end of the corridor, he saw the
tall form of the Antris, looking up in
alarm from the table heaped with items of obviously great value. Behind
him, the door of a wall safe
stood open.
As Belden burst into
the room, intent on his target, the Antris shrieked in genuine terror and
bolted
for another hallway. Belden's foot struck the table and gems flew everywhere.
He regained his balance
effortlessly. Knowing how he must look, eyes wild, hair flying, teeth
bared, he raced after his prey. The
hallway was dark, but his elvensight allowed him to easily follow and
even gain on the fleeing man. He
was only heartbeats behind the Antris when the floor gave way beneath
him and his foot plunged into a
pit.
He felt a sudden blinding
agony in his right knee, the poor abused leg that had been hurt so many
times before. His momentum carried him forward to slam into the floor,
knocking the breath out of him.
His sword went flying, skittering across the stones. His forehead rapped
the floor hard enough to blur his
vision.
At the sound of his
fall, the Antris spun and came back toward him, brandishing a knife. His
hood
had fallen back, and as his sight cleared, Belden could see that his
opponent was an ugly man of middle
years, a sneer twisting his mouth, with small black eyes that gleamed
greedily as he regarded the
sprawled elf.
"Now you will pay,
filthy bastard," the man snarled.
Belden tried to think
of a witty retort, came up with nothing, and decided to let his actions
answer
for him. As the man approached, the knife weaving hypnotically back
and forth, Belden opened his hand
and summoned Arelon with a thought.
The hilt of the magical
elven blade smacked satisfyingly into his palm. He rolled, gritting his
teeth as
new pain flared in his leg, and thrust Arelon's point upward into the
Antris' groin. The keen blade
pierced deep. The priest's eyes widened and he squealed horribly. Belden
hit the hilt of his sword with
his other hand, driving it deeper. Blood gushed down the blade and
spilled over his hands. The priest's
knife flashed down and struck him between the shoulderblades.
Belden ripped his
sword free and grabbed the Antris' ankles, wrenching the man off his feet.
They
tumbled across the hall and crashed into the wall with crushing force.
Belden let go of Arelon and seized
double handfuls of the Antris' wiry grey hair and slammed their foreheads
together. The Antris' head
rocked back and struck the wall. His eyes rolled back and he went limp.
Bending his arm at
a cruel angle, Belden found the knife lodged in his own back and pulled
it free.
As he brought it in front of him, he saw the poison smeared across
the blade.
"This is for my kids,
you son of a bitch," he said, and slashed the knife across the man's throat.
* * *
He opened his eyes,
and saw the death-contorted face of the Antris inches in front of his own.
His
stomach heaved.
Belden knew he'd been
hurt, hurt badly. He could feel the poison working through his veins. His
hands shook like a palsied old man's as he steered Arelon back to its
sheath. Sweat broke out in huge
drops on his brow, and shivers wracked him.
"Damn it, I won't
die here," he said, his voice weak and hoarse.
He summoned an image
of Jaenyth in his mind, beautiful, spirited Jaenyth. Her chestnut curls
were
blowing in the wind, her warm brown eyes twinkling at him. Strengthened
by that image, and by the
desire to see the stars again, he started to drag himself down the
passage. After only a few yards, his
arms felt like they were breaking. His right leg trailed uselessly
behind him. He couldn't seem to make it
move, and he realized it must be broken again. With his left leg, he
was able to push himself along in a
clumsy, crablike motion. He felt a draft of cool air on his fevered
face.
When he reached the
door and somehow fumbled his way to the handle to swing it open, he looked
back. He blinked. Surely he hadn't crawled that far? The body of the
Antris was lying in a heap almost a
hundred feet behind him. The distance had felt like a hundred miles.
His limbs spasmed. It was all he
could do to haul himself through the door and into the street. He rolled
onto his back and looked up. All
he wanted was a chance to see the stars, just one last time ...
The stars were blocked
by a cloud of smoke that filled the night sky and blotted out the light
of the
moon.
He stared at the smoke,
smelling its thick stench, seeing the reflected glow of fire, even hearing
the
hungry, greedy crackle of flames. Recalling his earlier wish to see
the city burned flat, he realized that it
seemed to be happening.
Fourcity was burning.
* * *