The Death of Dulgath (41 page)

“If these two are dead, how can they be watching?”

Nysa’s lips smiled. “That’s a completely different story, and we don’t have time for it, either.”

“You said that before. What’s the rush? Why don’t we have much time?”

“Because this body is dead. The muscles are stiffening. I’ll have to leave it soon. You need to get me to the monastery.”

“Why? What’s at the abbey?”

“Nothing right now—but something will be.”

The trail was quickly turning into a mountain stream as the rain flash-flooded over rocks. Overhead, thunder boomed, rattling the trees. Scarlett had slowed down as the trail became a darkened tunnel, shrinking in on the sides, becoming the narrow footpath Hadrian remembered. They were halfway, possibly as much as three-quarters. He searched for landmarks, things he could remember, but in the storm everything looked different. Surely they were close to the top; the trees were getting shorter.

The crash of rain made it hard to hear anything, and Hadrian might have died if it hadn’t been for Scarlett. Despite her professed desire to escape him in her chase after Nysa Dulgath, she continued to look back—never more than a glance—but enough to see he was still there.

As they climbed into the shorter trees and low brush, lightning flashed while she looked back. She reined her horse and pointed. She wasn’t looking at Hadrian; her sight went past, focusing behind him. Wide eyes completed the story. Before she even yelled her warning, Hadrian had drawn his bastard sword and wheeled Dancer around.

Lord Fawkes and Sheriff Knox came rattling up the trail. They were both soaked, slick, and shiny. They had drawn their swords, bright silver in the lightning flash. Both showed white teeth in vicious grins.

“Deal with him, Sheriff,” Fawkes barked, letting Knox squeeze past.

“Keep going!” Hadrian shouted to Scarlett.

“There’s two of them,” she yelled back.

“I can handle two.”

“Maybe on a good day, but this isn’t a good day for you.”

She knew not to mention his ribs, not to even say he was hurt, but that’s what she meant. She refused to abandon him in the face of uneven odds.

“Trust me. I can handle this,” Hadrian told her.

“I remember you now,” Knox said, tucking the loose end of his sodden cloak into his belt after the fashion of some mercenaries. In the military, only officers wore them. Those that transitioned out brought their cloaks as status symbols but maintained the axiom that
only fools fight with a flag on their back.

Seeing the cloak, Hadrian remembered Knox, too. They had both been at the Battle of Gravin River Ford. Hadrian had been an arrogant kid of fifteen who’d just joined Warric’s Third Battalion, his first enlistment. Knox was a veteran in the same unit. Hadrian hadn’t kept his fighting ability a secret, and when he rallied the troops and almost single-handedly held the line against Earl Francis Stanley of Harborn’s forces, Ethelred had appointed him captain.

Showing up his elders and getting promoted hadn’t won him many friends. Hadrian didn’t remember Knox in particular but wouldn’t be surprised if he still held a grudge.

“You know what I think?” Knox said. “I think you were lucky that day. Never heard of any great acts of heroism after Gravin Ford.”

That was because Hadrian had resigned his newly awarded commission within a month of receiving it. As an officer he had the right to abdicate, and he did, leaving Warric altogether to join the ranks of King Armand’s forces in Alburn, where he kept a lower profile and managed to serve for a whole year.

“And like the tart said”—Knox grinned his white teeth at Scarlett—“this isn’t a good day for you.”

The trail was narrow, forcing Scarlett to stay behind him. She was out of immediate danger, but that was Hadrian’s only blessing.

Dancer wasn’t a warhorse; she wasn’t trained for combat. With one hand needed for the reins, Hadrian was limited to a single sword against two enemies. And his ribs hurt. Carrying Nysa had at best aggravated the wound, and possibly done real damage. Riding hadn’t helped, either. Stiff and sore, he suffered constant pain that cycled with an annoying randomness between an ache and a stabbing jolt. Scarlett and Knox were right: This wasn’t a good day for him.

The sheriff spurred his horse and charged forward, swinging as he came. Knox was a seasoned soldier and used an economical stroke that demonstrated more respect than the sheriff’s words. He didn’t expect to kill on first clash, which itself was proof of Knox’s own martial acumen.

Hadrian caught the blade easily, but the impact sent a screaming thunderbolt down his side, making him cramp and preventing a proper counter. Trapped on the horse, he was limited to a twisting effort from his torso—and that part of him was broken. Instead, he took advantage of the part of him that wasn’t. Rising, he slipped out of his right stirrup, gave a hard kick, and caught Knox in the stomach, sending the man over his horse’s side and onto the ground.

Hadrian shot a look to his left, expecting Fawkes to be on top of him. With Knox down, Hadrian readied his blade to block whatever attack Fawkes would give him—only he wasn’t there. Intent on catching Royce and Lady Dulgath, the lord had taken the opportunity to force his horse through the brush that bordered the trail, riding right past Hadrian.

He would have had a clear path, except that Scarlett was waiting.

As Fawkes attempted to race by, Scarlett, lacking a sword and holding only a small knife, did the only thing she could—she leapt at him. Flinging herself off her horse, she tried to grapple Fawkes to the ground. Hadrian expected Fawkes to cleave her in half, and if he’d been left-handed he might have. But his sword was on the wrong side. Instead, he backhanded Scarlett in the face, sending her to the ground.

Fawkes wasted no more effort on either of them and rode up the trail.

By the time Hadrian looked back, Knox had gotten to his feet and moved uphill, around to Hadrian’s off side.

Trying to fight on horseback with broken ribs on a narrow trail had all the makings of a disaster. Using her as a shield, he jumped down on the far side of Dancer.

Hitting the ground was excruciating. The jolt brought more flashing lights, and he sucked air through clenched teeth for a second before he could think again. Then, slapping Dancer out of the way, he drew his short sword.

Knox had his second sword drawn now as well, but he was in a precarious position, with Hadrian in front and Scarlett behind. The woman was getting to her knees, bleeding from her nose and lip, but she still had her dagger.

Knox was an experienced fighter and not at all a fool. He knew the path of least resistance. Hadrian saw it in his eyes. He witnessed the subtle shift on the grip of the sheriff’s sword, the tilt in his hips toward the downhill side of the trail.

Scarlett wasn’t a fool, either, but she also wasn’t an experienced swordfighter. Fights she’d known were likely limited to fists and thrown bottles. Because Knox was looking at him instead of her, she had no idea what was about to happen. She pushed up, rising to her feet, moving toward Knox. She probably thought to distract him, maybe even stab him in the back. She never saw the threat, didn’t realize her own mistake, until he twisted and thrust half the steel of his blade into her stomach. Her eyes went big, her mouth opened, but she made no sound.

If there had been any lingering doubt about the sheriff’s intelligence, or his sense of self-preservation, he erased it by jerking out his sword and racing up the trail past Scarlett. Knox caught her horse and, in a running mount, leapt up and sped away following Fawkes.

Scarlett collapsed face-first in the rushing stream of muddy water coming down the mountain trail.

“Scarlett!” Hadrian fell to his knees beside her. He took hold of Scarlett’s shoulders and gently lifted, turning her over.

“No!” Scarlett screamed. “Don’t touch me! Don’t move me!” Her face contorted in pain as she struggled to inhale, swallowing air instead of breathing it.

She had mud on her face, her beautiful hair pasted to her skin with the wet. Her eyes were squeezed tight, her mouth wrenched in pain.

“Scarlett, I…” He didn’t know what to say.

Hadrian had seen it happen on the battlefield. Thrusts to the abdomen were never good. Deep ones—this sort—were almost always fatal. The blood coming from her stomach, beneath her pressing hands, was dark and thick.

“Go,” Scarlett was able to say, her voice weak.

“I can’t.”

“Go—go save Nysa.”

“I can’t leave y—”

“If you save her”—Scarlett gasped—“she’ll save me. It’s my only chance. Now go.”

“But Nysa is—” Hadrian started.

“Trust me. Just do it!”

“Okay, okay, but you have to hang on, you hear me?” He pushed up out of the mud, picked up his swords, and grabbed Dancer. “I’ll be right back. You wait for me!”

Hadrian hauled himself into the saddle, as below him Scarlett lay doubled over in the sodden path, clutching her stomach. With each gasp of air, she whimpered. A dark tail of blood snaked downhill with the trickling rain.

“Hadrian,” Scarlett said. She managed to look into his eyes. “The Manzant slavers…you were right.” She sucked in another breath. “I didn’t do it because of Royce.”

Hadrian stared at her, feeling the rain run down his face. “Don’t you give up. You hear me? You wait! I’ll be right back!”

Chapter Twenty-Three
Monastery by Night

The storm was letting up when Royce guided his horse into the courtyard of the monastery. Old stone, wet from the storm, shimmered and flashed bright with the last few flickers of lightning. Three monks were waiting at the front gate with mournful faces and soaked habits. None looked surprised to see them.

“In here. In here!” The oldest of the three waved Royce toward the warm glow of interior light. “How is she? When the storm arrived we knew something was wrong.”

By the time they reached the abbey, Nysa’s eyes had closed and she had gone limp. “Take her,” Royce said, not trusting himself to get down without dropping her.

One of the younger monks reached up and took her from his arms. Royce felt relief followed by loss. He didn’t understand half of what Nysa’s corpse had told him, and believed less than that.

He didn’t think she lied. She wasn’t the sort, and the lack of breathing and cold skin backed up her story better than an eyewitness, but such things were hard for Royce to accept. He’d met his share of preachers, priests, and hermits, each selling their version of life and death, trying to convince new recruits. Royce never saw a reason to invest in their opinion when he had his own, especially when his worked and theirs didn’t. But Nysa—or whoever it was—wasn’t asking for his faith, his support, or his money. Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t after something. No reason for her to spin such a yarn without a point. As he handed her down and watched them take her inside, he knew he was missing that point.

What does she want from me?

“You’re the other one?” the oldest monk asked.

Took a moment for Royce to realize what he meant. “Yes. You must have met Hadrian.”

He nodded. “I’m Abbot Augustine. Thank you for bringing her. We’ll handle things from here.”

If by that he meant for Royce to leave, he was mistaken. Risking his life for someone wasn’t normal for him, and he wanted to know why he’d done it. Royce had heard a fairy tale, but not his place in it. She had a reason behind asking him to bring her.

Because I’m elvish? Maybe. But there’s something more.

Royce was a man of few beliefs. He relied on the bedrock constant of man’s propensity for greed and hate. No one did anything except to help themselves. This axiom had proved a sure bet so often, it ranked right alongside water running downhill.

She wants something, but what?

Royce dropped down and followed the rest of them into the big ivy-covered building. The monks made no move to stop him. One even held the door.

“Have you ever seen such weather?” the young man asked.

Royce nodded. The storm was bad, but not unusual for summer.

The monk continued to linger at the door, looking up at the sky. “I’ve only ever seen a storm once before. When old Maddie Oldcorn died, we had one of these.”