A Clash of Honor (16 page)

As they rode, the desert landscape gave way to a small oasis: they were back on rolling green hills, the sand giving way to fields of grass, and a well-paved road appeared which led them over a gurgling stream, across a small drawbridge, unmanned, and into a small village. It was surrounded by a stone wall, demolished in places by the McCloud raid, and the village, with its several dozen cottages, looked large enough to hold only a few hundred people. Thor could tell from here that most of the buildings had been damaged. The streets were filled with debris and even one or two houses were still smoking, smoldering slowly.

There was no sentry standing guard as they rode through the open gate, which was smashed off its hinges, and headed right into the town square. But this village was beautiful: in stark contrast to the wasteland around it, it had vibrant green grass, gurgling streams, beautiful fruit orchards. Sulpa was an idyllic oasis in the midst of a vast and unforgiving terrain. Thor was not that well-traveled, and he had no idea that places like this existed in the Ring.

As they charged into the town square, a dozen of the town’s elders hurried out to greet them, concern in their eyes. These were smart people, and they spotted Reece’s condition before Thor even stopped, before he even had to say anything. They fixed grave looks of concern on him, and seemed to immediately recognize what he was suffering from.

“How long ago was he bit?” one elder called out.

“Not ten minutes ago,” Thor responded.

“There might still be time. He must to the healer’s house, and quickly. Follow us.”

The elders turned and ran through the narrow streets, and Thor and the others rode after them. The village was small, and after a few blocks the men came to a stop before a small cottage built of an ancient stone, with an arched door. The elders slammed the knocker as Thor dismounted, carrying Reece in his arms. Reece was completely limp, and Thor could not believe how sick he had become so quickly.

The door opened, and a beautiful young girl, maybe sixteen, stood in the doorway, wearing a flowing white robe, with straight black hair and sparkling blue eyes. Her eyes immediately fell to Reece and flashed with concern; she ran to him without saying a word.

She reached up, lay a palm upon his forehead, scanned his body, and saw the bite festering on his arm.

“Inside!” she said urgently.

She turned and hurried back inside, and Thor raced after her, carrying Reece. Behind him, the other Legion members took positions outside the door, the house too small to fit them all.

“Set him down there!” she ordered, frantic, gesturing to a stack of hay in the corner of the room. Thor hurried and set Reece down, and as soon as he did, the girl crossed the room with a sharp knife.

“Hold his arms!” she commanded, great authority in her voice, an authority that surprised him. “Grab his wrists!” she added, “and hold them firmly! Do you understand? He will fight you. Even in his weakened state. Do NOT let him flail. Do you understand?”

Thor nodded back, nervous, and she wasted no time. She leaned forward, took the knife, and in one quick motion cut deeply into the wound that was already festering, half of it black. She cut in a small area, right at the center, and Reece suddenly shrieked as she did, trying to sit up. He buckled like crazy, and Thor, sweating, did his best to hold him down. It took all of Thor’s might. He had never seen his friend like this.

She held a pan beneath his arm, and black liquid began oozing from the wound, filling nearly all of it. Gradually the oozing stopped, and Reece began to calm, breathing hard, moaning in agony.

She threw the pan of black ooze out an open window, set down the knife, hurried over to a stand, took a red ointment, and quickly rubbed it into the wound. It hissed, and Reece screamed once again. Thor did his best to hold him down, though it was not easy.

She wrapped a fresh bandage around Reece’s wound several times, then tried to calm him by laying an open palm on his chest, reassuringly, slowly easing him onto his back.

She held a palm to his forehead, pried open both eyelids, and examined his eyes. She let go and his eyes closed. She waited patiently, and after several seconds, his eyes fluttered, then opened. Thor was shocked: he looked exhausted, but alert.

“I feel better,” Reece said weakly, his voice hoarse.

“That is the poison leaving you,” she explained. “We may have just caught it in time.”

Reece licked his lips, chapped and dry.

“Am I seeing things, or are you the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen?” he asked, sounding nearly delirious.

The girl blushed and looked away.

“You’re seeing things,” she replied. “Either that, or making fun.”

Reece grew serious.

“I swear I am not, my lady,” he said, eyes open, more alert, looking at her with urgency. “I must know your name. I think I love you.”

She reached up, took a small vial of liquid, opened Reece’s mouth and poured it in.

“My name is Selese,” she said. “You don’t love me. You love my medicine. Now drink,” she said, “and forget all of this.”

Reece gulped down the liquid, and a moment later, his eyes closed, unconscious.

Selese looked at Thor.

“Your friend will live, it seems,” she said. “But I doubt he’ll remember much of this. He was delirious.”

But Thor was of another mind. He had never seen Reece so smitten, and he knew he was not one to take love lightly. He felt that, despite his sickness, Reece’s feelings for her were genuine.

“I would not be so sure of it,” Thor said. “My friend does not speak lightly. I would not be surprised if he has found his love.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Godfrey walked with Akorth and Fulton down the back streets of King’s Court, on guard, keeping a loose hand on the dagger on his belt as he went. His eyes shifted, and he was increasingly paranoid in light of the week’s events. Godfrey no longer underestimated the tyranny of his brother’s reach, and felt he could be assassinated at any moment. He had become closer to Akorth and Fulton than ever, grateful to them for helping save him, and while they were hardly warriors, they were at least two more bodies, two more sets of eyes to stay vigilant.

Godfrey turned the corner and saw the sign for his old tavern, hanging crookedly, swinging in the afternoon, drunks spilling out of it, and he felt a sense of repulsion. A wave of anxiety overwhelmed him. He no longer felt comforted being here; now he just associated the place with his near death. He told himself that he would never walk through its doors again.

But he trudged forward, despite his fears, right through the open door, because he was determined. He was determined to bring Gareth down, whatever the cost, whatever the personal danger. There was too much at stake for him now, too much blood that had been drawn. He couldn’t just let this go and disappear quietly in the night. He had to find out who had tried to poison him, not for his own sake, but for the sake of them all. If he could prove the assassination plot, then legally it would be enough for the Council to depose Gareth. All he needed was a witness. One credible witness.

But in this part of town, he knew, credibility was a rare commodity.

Gareth and his friends entered the tavern, and several of his old compatriots stopped and looking his way. Their expressions told him that they were surprised to see him alive; they looked as if they were watching a walking ghost. He did not blame them. He also felt certain that he would die the night before, and that it was a miracle he had survived.

Slowly, the room came back to life, and Godfrey made his way over to the bar, Akorth and Fulton beside him, and they took up their old seats. The barkeep looked at Godfrey warily, then ambled over to them.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,” he said in his deep, shaky voice. “In fact, I didn’t expect to see you here at all. You seemed pretty dead last I saw you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Godfrey responded.

The barkeep looked over, rubbed the stubble on his chin, then broke into a large smile, revealing crooked teeth. He reached out and clasped Godfrey’s forearm, and Godfrey clasped him back.

“You son of a bitch,” the barkeep said. “You really do have nine lives. I’m glad your back.”

The barkeep filled mugs for Akorth and Fulton.

“None for me?” Godfrey asked, surprised.

The barkeep shook his head.

“I promised your sister. She’s a tough one, and I’m not keen to break it.”

Godfrey nodded. He understood. A part of him wanted the drink, but another part of him was glad for the encouragement not to.

“But you didn’t come to drink, did you?” the barkeep asked, growing serious, looking back and forth between the three men.

Godfrey shook his head.

“I’ve come to find the man who killed me.”

The barkeep leaned back, looking grave, and he cleared his throat.

“You’re not saying I had anything to do with it?” he asked, suddenly defensive.

Godfrey shook his head.

“No. But you see things. You served the drinks. Did you see anyone last night?”

“Anyone who shouldn’t have been here?” Akorth added.

The barkeep shook his head vigorously.

“If I had, don’t you think I would’ve stopped him? Do you think I want you poisoned in my place? It upset me worse than you. And it’s bad for business. Not many people want to come in and get poisoned, do they? Half my clients haven’t returned since you keeled over like a horse.”

“We’re not accusing you,” Fulton chimed in. “Godfrey is simply asking you if you saw anything different. Anything suspicious.”

The barkeep leaned back and rubbed his chin.

“It’s not so easy to say. The place was packed. I can’t remember a stream of faces. They come in and out of here so quick, and half the time, my back is turned. Even if someone snuck up on you, the chances are I would’ve missed it.”

“You’re forgetting the boy,” came a voice.

Godfrey turned and saw a drunk old man, hunched over, sitting alone at the end of the bar, who looked over at them warily.

“Did you say something?” Godfrey asked.

The man was silent for a while, looked back to the bar, mumbling to himself, and Godfrey thought he would not speak again. Then, finally, he spoke up again, not looking at them.

“There was a boy. A different boy. He came and left, real quick like.”

Godfrey recognized the old drunk; he was a regular. He had drank at the same bar with him for years, but had never exchanged words before.

Godfrey and Akorth and Fulton exchanged a curious glance, then all got up and ambled their way over towards the end of the bar. They took up seats on either side of the old man, and he didn’t bother to look up.

“Tell us more,” Godfrey said.

The old man looked up at him and grimaced.

“Why should I?” he retorted. “Why should I stick my nose in trouble? What good would it do me?”

Godfrey reached down, pulled out a bag of thick gold coins from his waist, and plopped them down on the bar.

“It can do you a lot of good,” Godfrey answered.

The old man raised one finger skeptically, reached over, and pried open the sack. He peeked inside at the stash of gold, far more than he had ever seen in his life, and he whistled.

“That’s a high price. But it won’t do me much good if I don’t have my head. How do I know your brother’s not going to send his men down here and poison me, too?”

Godfrey reached down and plunked a second sack of gold beside the first one. The old man’s eyes widened in real surprise, for the first time.

“That’s enough money to go far from here—farther than my brother’s reach—and to never have a worry again,” Godfrey said. “So now tell me. I won’t ask again.”

The man cleared his throat, his eyes fixated on the two sacks of gold, then finally, he grabbed them, pulled them close, and turned to Godfrey.

“He was a commoner,” the old man said. “An errand runner. You know the type. I seen him before, once or twice, over at the gambling den. You pay this boy, he’ll run any kind of errand you want. He was in here that night. He came and went. Never seen him in here before, or since.”

Godfrey studied the old man carefully, wondering if he was lying. The old man stared back, holding his gaze, and Godfrey concluded that he was not.

“The gambling den, you say?” Godfrey asked.

The old man nodded back, and Godfrey, wasting no time, turned and hurried from the tavern, Akorth and Fulton following.

In a moment they were out the door, hurrying down the street, twisted down the narrow alleyways as they heading towards the gambling den, just a few blocks away. Godfrey knew it was a den of sin, with cretins of all types. Lately the crowd there had grown even worse, and he stayed clear of it, for fear of getting into yet another fight.

Godfrey and friends pushed open the creaking door to the gambling den, and he was immediately struck by the noise. The small room must have held a hundred people, all busily engaged in gambling, hunched over tables, betting with odd coins, with every sort of currency. Godfrey scanned the crowd for a boy, for anyone under age, but saw no one his age, or younger. They were all older, mostly broken types, lifelong gamblers, all hope lost in their eyes.

Godfrey hurried over to the manager, a short, fat man, with eyes shifting in his head and who would not look him in the eye.

“I’m looking for a boy,” Godfrey said, “the errand runner.”

“And what’s it to you?” the man snapped back at him.

Godfrey reached down, and pushed a sack of gold coins into the man’s hand. The man weighed them, still not looking into Godfrey’s eyes.

“Feels light,” the man said.

Godfrey shoved another sack into the man’s hand, and finally he grinned.

“Thanks for the gold. The boy’s dead. Found his body washed up last night, in the streets with the rest of the sewage. Someone killed him. Don’t know who. Or why. Means nothing to me.”

Godfrey exchanged a baffled look with Akorth and Fulton. Someone had killed the boy who was sent to kill him. It was Gareth, no doubt, covering his tracks. Godfrey’s heart fell. That meant yet another dead end. Godfrey racked his brain.

“Where is the body?” Godfrey asked, wanting to be sure this man wasn’t lying.

“With the rest of the paupers,” the man said. “Didn’t want the body in front of my place. You can check out back if you like, but you are wasting your time.” The man burst out laughing. “He’s dead as death.”

They all turned and hurried from the place, Godfrey anxious to get away from that man, from that place, and they hurried out the back door, down the road, until they reached the pauper’s cemetery.

Godfrey scanned the dozens of mounds of fresh dirt, sticks and markers in the ground in the shapes of all the different gods they prayed to. He looked for the freshest one—but so many of them seemed fresh. Did that many people die in King’s Court each day? It was overwhelming.

As Godfrey walked, turning down a row of graves, he spotted a young boy kneeling before one of them. The grave before him was fresher than most. As Godfrey neared, the boy, maybe eight, turned and looked at him, then suddenly jumped to his feet, fear in his eyes, and ran off.

Godfrey looked at the others, puzzled. He had no idea who this boy was or what he was doing here, but he knew one thing—if he was running, he had something to hide.

“Wait!” Godfrey screamed. He broke into a run after the boy, trying to catch up with him as he disappeared around the corner. He had to find him, whatever the cost.

Somehow, he knew this boy held the key to finding his assassin.