A Dance of Death (35 page)

Her anger grew along with her panic. How dare he try to frighten her so?

“No,” she said. “Ingram has many men at his disposal. They won’t kill him, I know it. The elves will lose, and then they’ll pay for their foolishness, as will the merchants for such cowardly behavior.”

Torgar shook his head, and his voice hardened as his patience ended.

“Even if they don’t kill him, Ingram will still want to know why we didn’t help. Why we stood here and hid while the lord of our city fought for his life. Either way, you risk the noose. We
must
go out there. Let me take half our men. If the battle’s close, we might be enough to turn the tide. The fate of Angelport will be decided tonight, and we cannot remain here and do nothing!”

“We can, and we will!” Madelyn snapped. “I am lady of the household, and you will do as I say. I control the Keenan fortune, not you. All you have is… guesses. You know nothing. You’re a stupid mercenary, more drunk than sober!”

Instead of getting angry at her outburst, Torgar only grinned.

“You seem to forget a few things,” he said. “Speaking of which…have you named me godfather to Tori yet?”

She instinctively clutched the babe tighter.

“I’ve had my advisors begin preparations,” she said.

“No,” Torgar said, shaking his head. “No more stalling. I want it done now. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” she asked, looking at him as if he were out of his mind.

“Yes,” he said, his grin slipping. “Tonight. Unless you want me to start telling stories to my men.”

Madelyn felt acutely aware of how alone they were, with not even Lily there to provide witness. Swallowing, she gave him a nod.

“If you insist,” she said.

She left the room, Torgar following closely behind her. Downstairs she found one of her advisors watching from a window, and she ordered him to bring her a quill and some parchment. As he was leaving, she caught his shoulder.

“I’ll want several of my guards as well,” she said. “To provide witnesses.”

The advisor gave her a worried look, then nodded. He no doubt knew that the word of those guards would be worthless in any royal court. For her to ask meant she was in trouble. They went to the front parlor, where she found Lily.

“Please take her,” she said quietly as Torgar lingered behind them at the door. “Take her somewhere safe.”

The advisor returned, carrying both the supplies she requested as well as a group of six guards. They gathered behind him, their hands on their weapons.

“Good, you’re here,” Torgar said, grinning at them. “Let’s get this distraction over with, shall we? Just in case someone decides to climb our walls.”

Madelyn felt better with the guards there, and she took the quill and dipped it in the inkwell.

“What do you wish me to write?” she asked.

“The obvious. State I’m the godfather.”

She sat on the floor, a hardwood table before her. The light of the torches was dim, and she squinted as she wrote the letters. Normally she’d make an advisor do the work, but she knew Torgar would only accept something written in her own hand. When finished, she signed it and offered it to the mercenary. He took it, then glanced at the guards.

“Jenson,” he said, offering the parchment. “You can read. Tell me what that says.”

The guard accepted the paper, tilted it so he might see better, then frowned.

“Just says you’re charged to protect Tori,” he said. Torgar clucked his tongue and shook his head, taking the parchment back.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Try again.”

“Forgive me,” Madelyn said. “I’m not used to writing such documents.”

Torgar chuckled.

“Sure thing, milady. Still…try again.”

This time she wrote it official, deciding she could cancel it at any time. Once the business with the elves and the merchants was over, the troublesome mercenary had to be the next priority. The risk was too great. Signing him godfather and protector of her granddaughter, she gave it directly to Jenson, who read it aloud.

“Excellent,” Torgar said, nodding as he listened to the words. “That’ll do.”

He lashed out, his fist striking her across the chin. She spun, her head hitting the table on her way to the ground. Spots filled her vision, and coughing, she spat blood.

“Guards!” she cried, her voice weak. Looking up through tear-filled eyes, she saw them standing there. Doing nothing. Torgar strode over, no more grins, no more amused expressions. His eyes were cold. She went to cry out again, but his foot kicked her in the teeth.

“Did you see that?” Torgar said to his guards, and only then did she realize how badly she’d erred. “How about you?”

She tried to stand, but he struck her again, blasting the air from her lungs and robbing her sob of any power.

“It’s that damn Wraith again! How’d he get in here?”

Another kick rolled her onto her back. Tears streamed across her face as Torgar leaned down and grabbed her by the hair.

“Almost impossible to keep him from killing, ain’t it?” he asked. Behind him, a couple of the guards laughed. Madelyn felt ready to vomit.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t do this.”

“You have no right to beg,” Torgar said, glaring. “Laurie was a good man, a powerful man, and he deserved a lot better fate than what you gave him. Getting his throat cut by his own wife? Fuck. You’re lucky I don’t let every guard in this mansion have a turn with you for that.”

He rammed his forehead against her face, breaking her nose.

“Please don’t hurt Tori,” she pleaded. “Please, whatever you do, don’t…don’t…”

Torgar leaned closer, and when his grin returned, her dread only grew.

“Taras was like my own kid,” he said. “I helped raise him better than you ever did. Tori’s as much my grandchild as yours. I’ll never hurt a hair on her head, so you can die knowing that. I’ll teach her, protect her. After all, I’m her godfather…which means until she comes of age, this mansion, and all its fortunes, are mine.”

The reality hit her like one of his fists. She tried to cry out, to deny it, but Torgar drew a dagger from his belt and stabbed her in the breast. As she felt blood drip across her blouse, she saw the dagger and realized it was her own. Ash from the fireplace still covered the handle. Her mouth opened and closed silently, and then she collapsed.

Her last thoughts were of Tori, and who she might become with a man like Torgar as her father.

A
s Lord Egar’s men marched toward the city gates, Ingram glanced back at his mansion and felt a tug of sorrow.

“It had to be done,” said Egar beside him. “Sailors and ruffians are one thing, but an army of elves?”

Ingram scowled. He understood, all right, but that didn’t mean he liked it. The second the attack began, Egar had hurried into the mansion and found Ingram watching from one of the front windows. His idea had been simple, though on the cowardly side. They’d flung a helmet on Ingram’s head, a coat of mail over his chest, and given him a shield. As the elves were scaling the walls, they pushed open the gates, Ingram hidden in the center of the hundred armed men. The city guard had sworn up a storm, but they could not stop them.

“They might keep looking if they find I’m not there,” Ingram said, forcing himself to look away from the mansion. He kept expecting it to go up in flames at any moment.

“I know, but don’t worry. I have a safe place for us to hide.”

The streets were quiet, any man with half a mind smart enough to know that tonight was a night to remain indoors. As fast as they could march, they made for the front gates. Ingram thought Egar meant to leave the city entirely, but then they veered aside, to a path that ended at one of the walls.

“In there,” Egar said, gesturing to a plain looking home. “You should be safe.”

Ingram took a step, something feeling amiss.

“Where is this?” he asked.

“A safe house I’ve kept ever since the Wraith started killing. Hurry. We can’t stay in the open for long, else we’ll be noticed.”

Ingram tested the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open, he entered the small room. A round table was in the center, a candle burning atop it in a glass base. The fire place burned bright, casting long shadows across the far wall. At the back, a set of stairs led to the second floor. In one of the two chairs sat a man Ingram did not recognize. He reached for a weapon, but realized he carried none, only a shield. He didn’t remember forfeiting his dagger. Had it been when they put on his mail?

The door shut behind him, and the sound sent shivers up his spine.

“Who is this?” Ingram asked. “What’s going on?”

The man in the chair stood. He was dark-skinned, bearded, with a long scar running from his lip to his chin. He sipped hard liquor from a bottle, while in his left hand, he held a long blade.

“What do you think?” Egar said, his voice suddenly different. It was darker, angrier. Ingram had never heard someone speak to him with such contempt. He wanted to turn, but feared putting his back to the giant man.

“Glad to see you’re a man of your word,” said the stranger, setting the bottle down atop the table.

Ingram pulled the shield off his back, and for a moment he stood there, shaking. The stranger laughed as behind him, the door reopened.

“Make it quick, Darrel,” said Egar as he left. “We have much still to do.”

“Traitor,” Ingram muttered, eliciting a laugh from Darrel.

“To you, maybe,” said the man, tossing the weapon hand to hand, his grin so big he looked like a child given a cherished present. “But we’ve been paying him plenty, and for years. I’m thinking he might be the most loyal man in the city.”

Ingram lifted the shield, his face nothing but a mask of fear. Darrel slapped at it with his sword, which Ingram barely blocked in time. The big man shook his head, as if disappointed.

“This is going to be way too easy.”

When he pulled his sword back to stab, Ingram gave him no reason to think otherwise. But when he thrust again, Ingram launched himself forward. The sword hit the center of the shield and veered outward. Distance closed, Ingram rammed his knee into Darrel’s crotch, then followed it with an uppercut with his free hand. The man staggered backward on unsteady legs.

“You little shit!” Darrel cried, grabbing his sword with both hands and swinging. Ingram moved his shield to block, but he guessed too high. The sword clipped the bottom before continuing on, striking his mail shirt. The weapon could not cut through, but the blow knocked the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling into the table. Dropping the shield, Ingram fell to the ground, the killing blow missing and instead embedding a solid inch into the wood. Beneath the table, Ingram kicked out Darrel’s knee, and as he fell, did another shot to the man’s crotch, this time with his heel.

The effect was better the second time around. Darrel fell to both knees, and he had to grab the table to remain upright. Despite his trouble breathing, several of his ribs cracked or broken, Ingram flung himself at the man, wrapping his neck in his arms. The two hit the ground and rolled. In the scuffle, Ingram found himself flung off, with Darrel lying on his chest before the fireplace.

“Stay down!” Ingram said, kicking him in the ribs. Darrel dropped, but he pushed up again. Knowing he stood little chance in a prolonged fight, Ingram crawled closer, then wrapped his arms around Darrel’s neck. Darrel’s enormous fists closed about his arms, and they struggled, but Ingram had the better positioning. Inch by inch he lowered Darrel’s face, then at the last moment, twisted and flung him forward. Darrel’s face smashed into the burning coals, eliciting a howl that chilled Ingram to the core. It took all his strength to hold the man there for a moment longer. When he released, he scrambled for what lay beside him on the floor: the spilled bottle Darrel had been drinking from when they first entered.

As Darrel rolled himself out of the fire, Ingram took the bottle by the neck, turned, and swung it with both hands. It smashed against Darrel’s nose, crunching it inward before the bottle broke against his skull. Alcohol splashed across his face and beard, including a few coals that had remained lodged against him. His beard caught fire first, followed by the rest. As the man howled and flailed, Ingram staggered toward the steps. There was no way Egar would leave the front entrance unguarded, not until he saw a body. But perhaps up top, he might escape…

He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room was even smaller, the roof slanted in sharp angles. Within was a dresser, a bed, and an open, dirt-covered window. On the bed, as if he’d been waiting for him the whole while, sat the Wraith.

“You lasted this long,” the Wraith said. “I will give you credit for that.”

His sword lashed out, cleanly slicing through Ingram’s throat. He collapsed, clutching his neck as blood gushed through his fingers. Gasping for air, he saw the Wraith lean over, a sad smile on his face.

“I could have saved you, Ingram. To think you’d weaken, and offer peace. So disappointing.”

As he died, Ingram watched the Wraith leap out the window and into the bloody night.

U
pon seeing his own kind besieging Ingram’s mansion, Dieredon felt torn between loyalty and fury. Surely such a brazen attack had not been condoned by Graeven, nor Ceredon himself. He’d heard of the attempt at the jail, and best he could tell, it’d been initiated by Laryssa. His gut told him Laryssa had done the same tonight. The attack might as well be an admission of war, something she had no authority to do.