David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

He could hear the soldier’s footsteps in the soft grasses now, and he drew the garrote from within his cloak, pulling the wire taut and wrapping it twice around each fist. He remained bent over the stones until the soldier reached him.

“What do you want me?. .” The guard trailed off, taking a step back. “Where are your satchels?”

The one satchel he did have-the one he always carried-was already in his hand and he straightened now, in the same motion swinging it at the soldier with all his strength and hitting the man full in the temple. The soldier fell to the ground, but managed somehow to keep hold of his sword. Not that it mattered. He was on the guard instantly, wrapping the garrote around his throat and pulling it taut. The soldier struggled, but to no avail. He’d used this same garrote against men far larger and stronger than this one.

Sitting back on his haunches and taking a long breath, he looked toward the gate. It still stood ajar, but none of the men was looking out at the moor. The guard’s friend was nowhere to be seen, and the men who had replaced them probably didn’t even know enough to be looking for him.

As if to prove his point, two of the new guards pulled the gate shut. The man wouldn’t be missed until morning.

He stripped the guard’s uniform from the limp body and began to put it on himself. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. He put his clothes on the soldier, thus perhaps delaying for a bit longer the discovery of just what he had done. Then he started westward, away from the castle and the sea, to the place where his horse was tethered.

He rode swiftly, hoping to reach Curlinte well before sunrise. At one point he heard riders in the distance approaching from the ducal city. Reining his mount to a halt, he made the beast lie down on the grasses, ducked down himself, and peered over the horse’s flanks, watching the riders. They didn’t slow, nor did they give any indication that they had seen him. He waited until he could no longer hear them and they were but dim, distant figures in the moonlight. Then he coaxed his mount back onto its feet and rode on. Even with the delay, he thought that he could reach the walls of Curlinte before daybreak. He might even have time to rest before seeking an audience with the duchess.

Diani didn’t have to wait long before her guards returned with the soldier from Kretsaal. Straightening in her chair, she beckoned the men into her chamber.

The duchess noticed his hair first. It was yellow and fine, more like that of a man from northern Aneira or even Eibithar than that of a Sanbiri. His eyes, too, seemed wrong. They were pale blue, almost grey, not at all as they should have been. He wore the grey and red of Kretsaal, but the uniform fit him poorly. Sanla, the baroness, never would have allowed such a thing.

Could he be an assassin?

The thought never would have occurred to her before the attack at the headlands the day before, and Diani wondered if she were allowing her lingering fears to cloud her judgment. The guard had a kindly face, hardly that of a killer. Though he did bear a small scar near the corner of his mouth.

“You bring tidings for me?” she asked. But even as she spoke, she rose from the chair and returned to her writing table, as if she might draw comfort from having something substantial between herself and the soldier.

“I do, my lady.” No accent, at least none that Diani could discern. He glanced at the two soldiers behind him before facing her again. “I was told by my baroness to speak only with you.”

Strange, and presumptuous. If he turned out to be just a soldier, she would have to speak of this with Sanla.

“The soldiers who serve me know that I expect not only their loyalty but also their discretion. They’ll remain here.”

“But, my lady, I have my instructions.”

Strange indeed. She allowed her eyes to wander to her table, searching for something to use as a weapon. Her dagger and sword were near the wardrobe, too far if he struck at her quickly.

“And now you have different instructions from your duchess. Do you really believe the baroness would have you argue the point?”

He stared at her, not appearing cowed as he should have, but rather seeming to search her face for some sign that she was growing suspicious.

“Your tidings?” she prompted again.

“Of course, my lady.” Something in the voice, the icy intensity that suddenly appeared in those pale eyes.

Diani took a step back, expecting an attack, but the man surprised her. Seizing the pot of hot brew from her tray, he whirled on the two guards, throwing the pot at one and pulling his sword free to run the other through.

The two guards were caught completely unaware. The pot hit one of them in the chest, splattering hot liquid on his face and staggering him. By the time the other man had his sword free, the killer had already driven the point of his sword into his chest. The guard could only drop his weapon to the floor, blood staining the front of his uniform as he fell to his knees and then toppled over. The first man had recovered enough to draw his blade, but the assassin was on him too quickly. The soldier parried one blow and then another, but even with the skills he had learned from Diani’s father, he was no match for the yellow-haired man.

For a moment, Diani couldn’t move. She had seen dead men before-soldiers killed in the hills by brigands and carried by their comrades back to the castle-but that was a far cry from actually watching a man die.

As the assassin drove the second soldier back toward the far corner of the chamber, she forced herself into motion. The pot of hot tonic, the one possible weapon she had spotted on her writing table, was gone. She thought about trying to make it to the corridor to call for help, but the two men were closer to the door than she. Instead she sprinted to where her own blade hung and pulled it free. As an afterthought, she grabbed her dagger as well. By the time she turned around, the second of her guards was dead as well, his head nearly severed from his body. The assassin, only slightly out of breath, a faint sheen of sweat on his face, was advancing on her.

“You truly think to succeed where your soldiers have failed?” he asked, grinning. This time the accent was unmistakable. Wethyrn, though she doubted he was here on behalf of the archduke. Assassins, it seemed, came from all realms of the Forelands.

He was bigger than she, stronger as well. And she had seen that he moved quickly for his size. Still, at almost any other time, speed would have been her one advantage. But she was conscious of the throbbing in her leg and shoulder, and she knew that she could not fight as she might have usually.

He closed the distance between them swiftly, trapping her near her wardrobe and leveling a powerful blow at her head. Rather than trying to parry it and being knocked off balance, she dropped into a crouch allowing the man’s blade to whistle harmlessly over her head. Anticipating her counter he swept his blade downward, to block her own sword. But Diani struck with the dagger instead, slashing him across the side of his knee. She gasped at the pain in her shoulder, but seeing blood soak into his trouser leg, allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so quick now.

The assassin offered no response at all, but launched himself at her again, chopping downward at her so that she couldn’t avoid the attack by ducking. She raised her sword and was nearly hammered to the floor by the force of his blow. Her arm felt numb and as he raised his blade to strike once more she wondered if she could absorb another assault.

She stepped back and cried out for help, but she knew it would do her no good. There were always two men positioned just outside her chambers, but those two men lay dead on the floor, and with her guest wearing the colors of loyal Kretsaal, the captain of the guard would never have thought to send more men.