Robert Newcomb: The Gates of Dawn

“No,” Tristan answered angrily. “Are you insane? How is it that I am supposed to solve your problems? All I want of you is to see you die.”

“Ah,” Scrounge answered. “We finally come to the heart of it. The one and only thing that the two us have in common. Except, perhaps, for the mutual desire to taste Celeste. And what is that one thing that binds us together, you ask? Why, our overriding desire to see the death of the other, of course. But our reasons for wanting these things are vastly different. You, you fool, do it for honor.”

“And you?” Tristan asked. “Just why is it that you still want my head? You could very easily escape, without the bother of confronting me. As you yourself just said, both of your employers are quite dead.” He paused for a moment, lowering his eyes menacingly. “And as you are about to discover,” he added softly, “I am not so easily killed.”

The crossbow continued to point straight at Tristan’s heart. At this range if the assassin released one of the yellow-tipped arrows, there would be nothing the prince could do to avoid it.

“Can’t you guess why I’m here?” Scrounge asked.

“No,” Tristan answered calmly. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“It’s the reward, of course!” Scrounge exploded. He snorted derisively, as if he were speaking to some dullard. “The one hundred thousand gold kisa your son offered for your life! A veritable king’s ransom! Or, in this case, should I say ‘prince’s’? The reward Nicholas never wanted collected, and believed would never be. Or have you forgotten? The prize still stands, and I plan to be the one who collects it.”

Tristan’s heart skipped a beat. Not because he suddenly realized that only one of them would come down off this mountain alive. He had known that from the moment he saw Scrounge. Rather, it was from the confirmation that he was still a wanted man, blamed for actions the populace did not know he had been forced to commit.

“I don’t believe you,” Tristan bluffed. “Ragnar and Nicholas are both dead, so there is no one left to pay you the money. And if they had conjured the kisa before their deaths, you would have simply stolen it and run, not bothering with coming after me. The pieces of your story don’t fit.”

Scrounge smiled. “That’s because you don’t have all of the pieces,” he answered. “In fact, the money exists, and is still being offered—but by someone new.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes skeptically. “And just who might that be?” he asked.

Scrounge tilted his head slightly, relishing the moment. “Can’t you guess?” he answered quietly. “Your hunters are now the remaining consuls of the Redoubt.”

Tristan’s couldn’t believe it—the once compassionate Brotherhood of Consuls wanted to see their prince dead.

“I still don’t believe you,” he bluffed again. “Why would they want me killed?”

“Oh, they have their reasons, of that you may be sure,” Scrounge answered. “But there is still more to this story. The story of what is about to happen to you.”

Tristan could do little but stare back at Scrounge. He desperately missed the familiar, comforting weight of his weapons across his back. Without them he felt very vulnerable, and alone. But even if he had them back, he wasn’t sure he would be able to kill the assassin—not in his still-weakened state. Dark edges of gloom began to press in on the corners of his mind, but he pushed them back. He cringed even more as he watched Scrounge draw the ceremonial dagger from his belt. The blade’s sharp edges were still coated in yellow powder.

“If you’re going to kill me, then why don’t you just do it?” Tristan snarled. “Why bore me with all this talk?”

“Because I don’t plan to kill you.” Scrounge smiled, showing his dark, decaying teeth. “Remember, the wanted poster said dead or alive. I plan to take you back alive. Wounded, but alive. You see, there is something about the stalker’s poison you do not know. Even though your health is improving, another wound, even one of dried stalker fluid such as still coats Wigg’s dagger, will bond with and reenergize the traces of poison remaining in your system—resulting in not only another series of convulsions and ultimately death, but first causing almost instantaneous unconsciousness. And this time, it may be days before you reawaken. While you are unconscious, I shall return you to Tammerland. To Bargainer’s Square, to be exact. The consuls will surface, paying me my reward, and they will leave you in your litter, letting you die slowly while the good citizens of Eutracia take their abuse of you. It should be most entertaining. In fact, I plan to stay and watch. But by then I shall be a much wealthier man, of course.”

Tristan’s breath left his lungs in a rush. The prospect of another round of convulsions, this time their outcome certain, shook him to the core. Dying, foaming at the mouth like some rabid animal in a cage, while the populace of Tammerland cheered it on. The very people he had risked his life to protect, over and over again. He tried to mask his feelings.

“But why?” he argued back gamely. “Why would the consuls do this? I’ve caused them no harm.”

“The answers are simple, though I will not tell you all of it,” Scrounge sneered. “For I value not only my head, but also the reward I am about to collect. However, this much of it I will say—if the consuls can be seen as the ones of the craft responsible for bringing in the traitorous prince, they will also appear to the populace as the new saviors of the nation. The help such a revelation would afford them in their efforts to rule would prove immeasurable.” He grinned widely. “I’m sure you won’t mind being poisoned again, dear prince? You seemed to enjoy it so much the first time.”

Scrounge slapped his free hand against his knee with outright glee, laughing loudly. “Who knows?” he asked. “I may even become the one viewed as the hero. Perhaps even as honorable ! An unusual turn of events, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How did you get the dagger?” Tristan asked, his mind racing as he tried to buy time.

Scrounge smiled. “Convenient, is it not, that Ragnar could not take it with him where he is gone?” he said happily. “But he is quite dead, and I liberated the dagger from all that remained of him: a pile of clothing and a great pool of blood.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Simple logic,” Scrounge answered, his laughter finally fading. “I guessed that you might be saved by the wizards. And that you would insist on doing the right thing—the honorable thing—by your son’s body, by bringing the remains to your family plot. I have been living here, in these woods, waiting for your return ever since the battle.”

“If all this is true, then why didn’t you just poison me while I was still unconscious?” Tristan asked. “It would have saved me the trouble of killing you.”

Scrounge’s face darkened. He stood, unstrapped the crossbow from his arm, and tossed it in the snow near his horse. The broadsword followed. Looking smug, he faced Tristan holding only Wigg’s dagger. Given Tristan’s condition, it was apparently all he thought he would need.

“The crossbow and the broadsword are far too blunt for the work I plan,” he said menacingly. “As I said, I only intend to wound you, and using those less precise weapons might cause a nasty, undesirable accident. But as to why I didn’t do this before, well, the truth is that I wanted to see the look in your eyes, dear prince. The look in the eyes of one who has never gone hungry. The look in the eyes of one who needed only to snap his fingers to receive the finest of everything, or merely to beckon to the most beautiful women of the realm, only to have them so willingly fall into his bed.” He paused for a moment, raising the shiny yellow-tinged blade of Wigg’s ceremonial dagger higher.