Jon Sprunk - Shadow’s Lure

Growling in frustration, Caim snatched up his knife. The other shadow warrior was surrounded by Keegan and the brothers, Dray and Aemon, and a short outlaw with a hood over his features. For a moment, Caim thought it was Liana. Then he remembered helping Keegan scatter her ashes in the hills above the castle, and his thoughts turned dark.

The shadow warrior slipped past Aemon’s spear and cut his legs out from under him. As the brother fell, the enemy launched himself at Caim. Their swords met with a screeching clang, sprang apart, and rushed at each other again. Keegan ducked in low from a flank and tried to score a hit, but with a deft move the warrior whirled out of the path of the attack. Caim lunged and caught on the flat of his blade the blow that would have disemboweled the youth.

The others retreated as Caim pressed the shadow warrior. The enemy’s attacks, which had seemed so quick only moments ago, had slowed to a more manageable speed. Or maybe he was catching up. The black sword seemed lighter in his hand, like he was wielding a reed cane instead of a blade. Caim blocked a stroke aimed at his side and tied up the scimitar long enough to dip inside the warrior’s guard. The suete knife flashed. Once, twice, and found flesh in the armpit joint on the third punch. The shadow warrior hissed and backed away. A moment later, he was gone in an eddy of dark shadows.

Caim let his arms fall to his sides as he fought to catch his breath. Kit came up through the floor.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He stepped back from the outlaws where they huddled around their fallen comrades.

“Where did they come from?”

“I don’t know.” She reached out to touch a tear he hadn’t noticed across the breast of his jacket. A couple inches deeper and… “But they aren’t alone. There are a bunch of creepy things crawling through this place.”

As he considered that, Caim called out to Keegan. “Gather up everyone to move. Take out some of the torches we brought and get them lit. We don’t have much time. More will be coming.”

“What about the wounded?”

The outlaws stood over the fallen men with dour expressions on their sooty faces. Caim looked down at Aemon, sitting against the wall with a pained expression as Dray tied a tourniquet around his leg. They’re useless to me, all of them. He bit his tongue to still the bloody thoughts colliding inside his skull.

“Leave them.”

“No fucking way,” Dray said. “I’m staying with him.”

Caim squeezed the hilts of his weapons. The presence had returned. Four presences, actually. The strongest was behind the door at the far end.

“When is this going to end?” he whispered.

Feathery tickles ran down his arm as Kit laid a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful what you ask for, love.”

With a grunt, he called Keegan over. The left-side door, heading west, felt like the direction of least resistance. “Take everyone through there. Look for a way around to the main hall.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’m aiming to be there before you. If not, you know what to do.”

Keegan frowned, but he began ushering his people to the doorway. Caim watched the outlaws exit. When they were gone, he turned to the north. The black sword thrummed in his hand. It was hungry.

“What’s through there?”

Dray looked over, but then turned his attention back to his injured brother. The men had their weapons arrayed on the floor close at hand. Spears, knives, a bow and a brace of arrows.

Kit hovered close. “I don’t know. It’s one of the places I can’t see. I’m sorry, Caim. I can try again. It’s just…”

“No. We’ll go together.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Oh, but it is, Kit. It’s been too late for a long time.

With a grim smile, he kicked open the door.

They rode through the foggy streets while chunks of hail shattered on the cobblestones. Huddled under the hood of her cloak, Josey shivered and kept her eyes on the street. Between the freezing rain and the howling wind, speech was next to impossible. Not that she had much to say to the men surrounding her.

Somewhere out in the storm, the assassin was headed for a safe place to lick its wounds. And they followed.

By the light of her soldiers’ lanterns, she could see Hirsch, astride his steed in an intersection of three streets. The adept leaned over in the saddle, his face nearly touching the soaked ivory mane of his little steed. Every few breaths he would look down at a glass case in his hand while the rest of their party-pitiful as it was-waited a respectful distance away. Josey sat between Captain Drathan and Hubert. The captain had wanted to bring more men, but Hirsch had insisted on fewer. As they argued the merits of strength versus stealth, Josey sided with the adept. Enough of her men had died already.

The Crimson Tigers, Volek and Merts, made up the rest of the small company. The two sat on their fierce-looking horses a few paces from the group, no doubt conversing about stratagems. After the assassin’s attack, Major Volek had refused medical care despite the nasty bruise on his forehead. Josey supposed he was ashamed for some perceived failure, but she didn’t see what he could have done differently. They had been caught ill prepared and paid the price.

Likewise, the sergeant, insisting that his injuries were negligible, had also asked to accompany them. When he stripped the sling from his arm and flexed it to prove his readiness, Josey didn’t have the heart to deny him.

After what felt like a short lifetime, Hirsch turned his steed northward and took off down a narrow street at a canter. Josey choked up on the slick reins as she headed after him, her protectors keeping pace on either side. She couldn’t help thinking about what they would do when they finally cornered the assassin. Under their oilskin ponchos, each guardsman carried a crossbow with steel-headed bolts designed to penetrate heavy armor, but so far mundane weapons hadn’t proved effective against the assassin, and Master Hirsch didn’t have the resources to enspell them. For the thousandth time in the last couple days, Josey wished Caim was here.

A strong smell cut through the rain. It took only a moment’s concentration to identify the combination of distinct odors-mud, fish, and garbage-that was the river. She clenched her thighs together, which made Lightning toss up his head in irritation. Patting his neck, Josey forced herself to relax. She trusted in the adept. She had to.

The street climbed to the top of a steep embankment. The river, swollen with rainwater, rushed past on the other side. Josey steered her steed away from the edge and tried not to think about what might happen if she were to fall into those turbulent waters.

They passed a row of houses on the bank’s landward side. The storm and the dark made getting her bearings difficult, but Josey guessed they must be getting close to the Processional, which meant they were approaching the city cemetery. Josey had too many memories of that place to suppress them all. The most recent, and the hardest to dismiss, was the day she had “buried” Caim. The mere thought of it produced a twinge in her breast. Damn you, Caim. Will I ever see you again?

Josey reined up. The adept had halted before a decrepit brick building.

“Is this it?” Captain Drathan asked over the clamor of the storm.

Hirsch nodded weakly, and Josey was seized by a pang of regret. Master Hirsch had spoken to her alone before they left the palace.

“I forged the letter, lass,” he’d said to her with pain in his eyes, not all of it physical. “My order didn’t send me. Truth be told, they banned me from coming.”