Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

Hell’s teeth, I thought. This adventuring lark was one thrill after another.

The second floor’s two northbound corridors were hung with faded tapestries, the silk plucked and moth-eaten. Semiprecious stones that had once been stitched to them had been lost or stolen, leaving only spots of less-faded color and a few hanging threads. I considered grabbing some of the ones that were left but figured that this wasn’t the time.

We had returned to the dining room on the second floor and my boredom knew no bounds. The chancellor nodded to a staircase that spiraled up through this floor and beyond. “The third floor is merely ramparts and siege equipment, with a small watchtower in the center, but if you wish me to show you around-”

“No, thanks,” I said hurriedly. I knew Renthrette would be looking daggers at me so I added, “You have been so kind already and I’m sure we can look over the third floor by ourselves.”

His thin mouth smiled briefly, and with an “As you wish,” he saw us back to our rooms. He was making his farewells when we heard a cry of panic. The chancellor wheeled and muttered, “The count’s rooms!”

Mithos was the first to run, unsheathing his broadsword as he did so. Orgos drew a dagger and joined him in a couple of long, powerful strides. The others bolted after them and I followed, like a sheep who didn’t want to be left alone. Over the sound of their feet I heard the crack of a heavy weapon striking timber.

It had never occurred to me that I would need a weapon, since I was sharing a fortified building with over a thousand trained soldiers. The realization that I was completely unarmed (as the others plucked knives and swords from their clothes) came too late; I had already rounded the corner.

One of the guards at the count’s door was dead, his throat and shoulders slashed open. The other was slumped against the wall with a crimson-flighted arrow in his chest and blood running from his mouth. A wild-eyed man in the black cloak and heavy scale of a Shale infantryman was hacking at the count’s door with a huge two-handed weapon that looked like an ax, but bigger. Scarier. As we approached, he turned on us.

Mithos advanced on him, his sword held at arm’s length to parry the wide arc of that massive blade. I froze as Orgos edged closer, his knife drawn but pitifully inadequate. Mithos made to strike, but the soldier lowered his grip and swung the vast, curved ax bit at arm’s length, tracing a deadly semicircle around him. Every time he swung it, you could hear the sound as it cut the air. Mithos drew back, as close to uncertain as I had ever seen him.

The man in the black cloak turned suddenly and slashed that ax at us in a great whistling sweep. I took a step back and felt the air move against my face. The others gave him a little more ground, watching his eyes for a sign of what he was going to do next. He couldn’t turn back to the locked door, so unless he surrendered, he was going to try to come through us. I took another step back.

He seemed to scan our faces, as if picking the weak point of the circle that hemmed him in, and when his gaze fell on me-scared and weaponless-he seemed to decide.

Guards suddenly appeared from the main corridors, running and shouting, their spears leveled. He saw them, and his eyes grew wide and bright. With a cry of rage, he raised the ax high above his head and sprang right at me. I leapt back just as the guards arrived. At least two of their spears penetrated his chest and stomach.

As his ax fell and his roar became a fading scream I twisted my eyes away. I don’t think I was the only one.

Everyone looked at each other with stunned, bewildered relief.

“Do you know him?” asked Mithos, stooping over the corpse.

Dathel muttered, “Not one of ours. I’d swear to it.”

As the guards lifted him his black cloak fell open and we stared at it in silence. Stitched carefully to the inside was a lining that was clearly not regulation. There was no design or pattern on it. It was red. A crimson as deep and vivid as a new wound.

Dinner was a tense affair, to say the least. Apart from the six of us there were the count and countess of Shale, Chancellor Dathel, and the rulers of Verneytha and Greycoast and their military advisors. On each of the two doors into the dining room stood heavily armored infantrymen with swords and pikes, and the corridor guard had been doubled. They were taking no more chances.

We sat around a long mahogany table and toyed with our unexotic food, glancing round the bare walls to avoid looking at the concerned faces all around us. The beef in front of me might have been more constructively used by a cobbler but, sensing that it came from the remains of Shale’s last cow, I sawed at it with my knife and chewed respectfully.

I should add that, despite the miserable castle and the lousy food, I was in reasonable spirits. I figured the situation had been exaggerated and we stood to make some easy money, and lots of it. The attack on the count’s room had not seriously swayed my general optimism. Yes, the assassin would have killed me if the others hadn’t been there to deal with him, but they had been there, and I wouldn’t be going anywhere without a heavily armed escort from here on in. I was, after all, the party linguist. Mithos and the rest of them could handle the odd murderous soldier while I read books and shared pithy little observations about Shale’s cultural history. It was sort of cool to have been brought in as some kind of expert, even if I wasn’t really an expert in anything useful: I was a guest, a minor celebrity, even, and that was a part I could have fun with.

“In the light of today’s attempt on my life,” said the count, “I suggest we move rapidly to our principal business.”

Count Arlest of Shale was a sinewy man in his early fifties, but he seemed exhausted, almost frail. His hair was brownish, greying; his eyes were anxious; and his cheeks hollow. He wore a monkish smock of coarse cotton, belted at the waist with brown leather, and the only sign of his office was a thin band of copper around his temples.

His wife was younger and not unattractive, despite the worry lines around her eyes. Her hair was long and reddish, her eyes a soft, foggy green, and her skin was pale as new ivory. She wore a high-collared dress of blue cambric in a slightly outmoded fashion. Her slim white hand rested on her husband’s clenched knuckles throughout the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” said the count, turning specifically to his fellow leaders, “this is Mithos, the group leader.”

Mithos nodded to each of them and we followed suit as he gave our names. Duke Raymon of Greycoast was a robust, heavyset fellow with a ruddy complexion, a thick russet beard, and blue eyes that sparkled amiably. He looked like a port drinker. He wore voluminous robes of orange satin trimmed with fur and embroidered with gold thread, and heavy rings. He was the only person present who actually looked like a noble, and I rather took to him for not letting the situation get him down.

The other was an altogether different creature. He was introduced as Edwyn Treylen, governor of Verneytha. He was a small, wiry man with the sharp nose and tight, glassy eyes of a rodent, or-better still-some stoatlike predator. He clasped his thin hands and drummed his fingernails on the table very slowly, looking at us. He had a way of fixing you with his beady gaze for a minute or more as if you were an insect in a collection.

“Are they aware of the situation to date?” boomed the duke of Greycoast, his voice rolling like an empty beer barrel.

“I thought we could begin with a list of the attacks thus far,” said the count softly. The somber chancellor passed him a page of spidery writing.