Paul Thompson - Alliances

Liveskill’s blond hair was still trimmed close, but since she’d last seen him he’d grown a short beard, confined to his square chin. He seemed paler than she remembered, but perhaps that was due to the combination of candlelight and the contrast of his dark blue tunic. Liveskill had once received a prophecy that he was in danger from fire, so no modern lamps were permitted within the Hall. How numerous racks of candles were safer than oil lamps, Breetan couldn’t imagine, but they were certainly warmer. Breetan was sweating heavily in her armor.

“I hear strange tidings,” he said before even looking at the document she held out to him. “You bring word of an insurrection in the Southward.”

She wasn’t surprised the news had preceded her; the Black Hail had spies in every town and village. Liveskill took her reports. Documents that had taken her a day and a half to write, he read through in moments, then sat back in his chair. His expression was unreadable.

“Why?” he finally said. “Why would this masked rebel leave you alive to send word of his deeds to the Order? Why deliberately attract our attention?”

Before she could reply, he answered his own question. “This is a diversion. He wants us to scour the Alderhelm forest for him while he strikes at his true target. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

His quick insight left her struggling to catch up. “My lord, I cannot believe he commands more than a few dozen foresters. It’s one thing to harry a small outpost, quite another to think he could threaten the Order. The difficulties of counting the Kagonesti are well known, but our census estimates the total number in the Southward at three to four thousand. Even if he could command them all, that’s hardly sufficient to bring down our fortresses.”

He did not reply. Breetan sweated harder. Her failure against the masked rebel was galling, and the Order seldom forgave failure. She decided a bit of boldness was required.

“My lord, allow me to redeem myself. Give me a company and I will—”

“No.”

His flat denial sent a shiver of doubt through her. Liveskill’s distant gaze focused on her, and she steeled herself for whatever would come.

“The failure was yours alone. Alone you will redeem it.”

Faint hope stirred. Perhaps her only choices were not disgrace or death.

Unfortunately he told her nothing more, only dismissed her, saying he would call for her at sunrise. His majordomo, Denius Dukayne, escorted her to a sumptuous bedchamber, where a fine repast awaited. Was this a last meal for the condemned or simple courtesy for a fellow knight and member of the Black Hall?

She fortified herself with food, wine, and the uncommon luxury of a comfortable bed.

Sunrise was still half an hour away when Dukayne tapped at her door, but she was ready and waiting for him. He conducted her to the courtyard of the Black Hall, where Liveskill awaited her.

With him were two artisans in short tunics, baggy breeches, and ankle-high boots. Liveskill introduced them. The elder, with white hair and a wispy beard, was Gonthar, master bowyer. The other, nearer Breetan’s age and clean shaven, was Gonthar’s journeyman, Waymark.

As a chill wind swirled around inside the sheer black stone walls, Gonthar handed Breetan the velvet-wrapped package he held. It proved to be a large, elaborately made crossbow. Despite her uncertainty over her situation, she was intrigued. Liveskill knew the crossbow was her favored weapon.

Although large, it was remarkably light. The black ironwood stock had been inletted deeply along its length, hollowing it and making it far lighter than it appeared. There was no arrow trough. The bowstring was buried in the stock, not lying atop it. At the front of the stock was a square opening for inserting the bolt blunt end first. Odder still was the tube attached to the upper right edge of the stock. It was brass, carefully blackened except for the knurled rings at one end. In place of the customary trigger bar, a round hole had been bored midway through the wrist of the stock. Within was set an ivory trigger. The weapon was light enough for her to hold in one hand, her arm at full extension. No doubt it had been designed to be loosed that way, if need be.

At the far end of the courtyard, a hundred yards away, a very small white target was tacked to a pile of sandbags. The target was stark against the black wall.

Waymark lowered the front of the bow to the ground. He pressed a button and a plate opened. Breetan had been mistaken about the method of loading the weapon. The bolt was not loaded butt first into the front of the stock, but point first into the hidden opening. Waymark inserted three short bolts, then closed the hinged butt plate. Rather than a single shot, he would have three before needing to reload.

He cocked the bow by means of an iron lever, inlaid in the bottom front of the stock. The buried bowstring bent the steel limbs of the bow and locked over the trigger nut with an audible snap. With no more sound than the soft snap of the waxed bowstring over the trigger nut, the crossbow spat its black missile at the distant target.

Waymark handed the bow to Breetan and retrieved the target. The disk of paper was no wider than her palm, but the bolt’s keen point had neatly pierced its center.

Lord Liveskill, who had been watching Breetan rather than the demonstration, said, “You try.”

After cocking the bow, Breetan put the weapon to her shoulder. The dark tunnel of the sighting tube made the fresh white target stand out like a beacon. Her bolt hit low on the target, tearing the sandbags. Not bad for a first shot with an unfamiliar weapon.

Liveskill sent the craftsmen away. When they were gone, he told Breetan the crossbow was hers. She knew there was more to come. The master of the Black Hall did not bestow gifts.

“Go to the Southward, find the masked leader of the elves, and kill him,” he said with uncharacteristic bluntness. “In the arsenal is a leather-bound case. It contains various bolts for the weapon. Each has a special use.”

The kind she and Waymark had used was called a whisper bolt, which flew silently over its effective range of two hundred yards. There were also lightning bolts that could penetrate an inch of steel armor plate at a hundred yards. Fire bolts were loaded with an incendiary paste that ignited three seconds after being loosed. Dragon tooth bolts had gilded heads coated with poison.

“Use the dragon tooth bolts only when you have the rebel in sight. A scratch will cause certain death in a day. A deeper wound, and the victim may last an hour. Bury the bolt in his flesh, and he will be dead before his head hits the ground. You leave today.”

“And my support?”

“None. Hire what porters or guides you need. Kill them when you’re done with them. Understand?”

She did. Left unsaid but understood by both of them was that Breetan must succeed or die.

He departed, leaving Breetan alone in the vast courtyard. Wind swirled hair in her face. She’d been given a second chance. She would not fail. Her honor as an Everride was at stake, as much as her life.

Neither especially gifted as a fighter nor valiant in the accepted knightly sense, Breetan had long ago realized she would never come close to matching her famous father’s deeds. She was determined to make her own mark, so she had chosen another path, away from battlefield glory. Lord Burnond had disapproved of his only daughter’s decision to join Liveskill’s order. Long retired to his estate near Lemish, he lived like any successful elder warlord, chasing bandits, banqueting on the anniversaries of his victories, hunting, and training men-at-arms. Concealed daggers and poisoned cups might sometimes be necessary, he said, but a true warrior did not seek them out. He likened the Black Hall to a tombstone, and branded it no fit home for honor. Breetan had braved his censure and taken her own path. If it lay in the shadow of a tombstone, so be it.