R. Salvatore - The Dame

Genoffrey felt a slug in his lower back-he knew it to be a stab from his pursuing opponent-at the same time he watched the Behrenese woman’s sword slide deep into King Delaval’s chest.

It occurred to him that it was appropriate that he and his dear friend would die at the same time.

He finished his charge, unable to interrupt his own momentum, slashing Spinebreaker down hard against the woman’s blade, but too late, of course, for that only jarred the impaled laird.

Genoffrey stumbled forward, taking Delaval with him hard into the far wall. The king crashed in without any attempt to cushion the blow, slammed face first into the stone, and bounced away, crumbling to the ground. Somehow Genoffrey managed to hold his footing and hold his blade, turning about with his back against the wall. He saw the woman, in obvious distress, looking down at her sword, nearly half its blade snapped off.

Whatever comfort that might have given Genoffrey, though, ended as she thrust her arm at him and launched the remaining piece of her weapon, flying spearlike, spinning sidelong in the air.

Genoffrey heard it hit the stone wall behind him.

It took him a moment to realize that it had gone through his throat.

He slid down to a sitting position. The woman approached him, while the man who had been his opponent, his sword red with Genoffrey’s blood, turned toward Tademist.

Genoffrey heard Tademist’s cries, one after another, as the two men stabbed at him. Every now and then came the ring of metal as valiant Tademist managed a block, but mostly Genoffrey heard the sickly sound of metal puncturing flesh.

He didn’t see any of that desperate last stand, though, for he could not take his eyes off the slight woman walking toward him. She bent low before him, stared into his eyes, and gave that wicked smile once more, then yanked her broken sword out of his throat.

She started for Delaval, but calls from the hall turned her.

She crossed Genoffrey’s field of view, running back toward the exit. He wanted to turn to Tademist, wanted to turn away from the sight of his fallen friend, Laird Delaval.

But he couldn’t. He hadn’t the strength, and even the slightest movement sent fires of agony tearing through his body. He couldn’t even manage to close his eyes, and so was forced to watch Delaval’s lifeblood pouring from him, pooling around him as he lay so very still.

To Genoffrey, that was the cruelest trick of all.

The lines of allies couldn’t have been clearer to Dame Gwydre as she listened to Bransen relay his tale of capture, escape, and ultimate victory over Ancient Badden. Beside Bransen stood the fallen monk Cormack and the barbarian woman Milkeila, with a pair of powries behind them.

Across the way to the left side of the room sat Father De Guilbe and his entourage, including Brother Jond, who Gwydre knew was the link between these wildly disparate groups. Jond was a good man, an honorable man, who put moral duty first and foremost. Gwydre hoped that to be the case, for De Guilbe had made no secret of his loathing of Cormack.

“We had enough allies to get through the ancient’s defenses,” Bransen remarked, throwing a sour look Father De Guilbe’s way as he spoke.

Gwydre sighed inwardly. Why did things always have to be so complicated?

“It was not our place to go!” Father De Guilbe protested. “I could not know of your predicament, Dame Gwydre!”

“We have already been over this, good Father,” Gwydre calmly replied. “No one holds you or your brothers at fault for the choice you made in retreating from the glacier.”

“No one?” De Guilbe asked sharply, his glare landing on Bransen.

The man in the black silk clothing grinned, something Dame Gwydre did not miss. “And you slew Badden?” she asked Bransen.

“It would do great injustice to those around me, these four and two other powries, for me to make such a claim, Lady,” Bransen replied, managing another sly grin at De Guilbe as he did. “It was my blade that took his head, yes, but only through the sacrifice and efforts of those around me.”

“However it was done, it is appreciated,” said Dame Gwydre.

“It was done for a price,” Bransen reminded, and all in the room widened their eyes at that rather callous announcement, a reminder that stole the joy from the room. “And now, good Lady, with your generosity, I would ask that you extend that reward.”

Beside Gwydre, Dawson McKeege and another advisor began to protest, but Gwydre held up her hand to silence them and bade Bransen to continue.

“I would have my Writ of Passage,” Bransen demanded. “I will go and collect my wife and her mother and travel Honce as a free man as I was promised.”

Gwydre nodded.

“And I insist upon a similar writ for Cormack and Milkeila,” Bransen added.

“No!” shouted Father De Guilbe, leaping to his feet. Beside him, Brother Giavno tried to grab his arm, but the large, older man tugged free of his grasp and stormed toward Gwydre. “Cormack does not answer to the laws of the lairds but to that of the Order of Abelle.”

“Are you saying that Chapel Abelle will not honor my wishes?” Gwydre asked. If the cool and calm woman was shaken in the least by the sudden and violent outburst she didn’t show it.

“I beg you not to do this, Dame Gwydre!” Father De Guilbe said. “Brother Cormack betrayed us!”

Despite the heightened tension, Gwydre smiled at De Guilbe’s clever and selective use of Cormack’s title. He only called Cormack “brother” when claiming church jurisdiction, it seemed. She waited for De Guilbe to finally stop his march, just a few feet from her chair, then she turned to Cormack.

“Have you anything to say in your defense?”

“I followed my heart,” Cormack replied. “Everything I did, I did because I believed it to be the will and manner of Blessed Abelle, the calling of my order.”

“Betraying us to the barbarians?” rasped De Guilbe.

“Ending a needless slaughter,” Cormack corrected. “You held the men of Milkeila’s clan prisoner. You-we-had no right!”

De Guilbe started to shout back, but Dame Gwydre silenced him and bade Cormack to continue.

“The Alpinadorans of the neighboring islands would all have died at the base of our chapel before surrendering our captives to us,” the young man explained. “I could not tolerate that slaughter. There was no need for it.”

“So what did you do?” Gwydre prompted.

“I freed the four men and showed them the way out of our dungeon to rejoin their people. The Alpinadorans left our island. The battle ended, and so ended the death-the death of Alpinadorans and of monks.”

Dame Gwydre turned to De Guilbe, her expression cold.

“A simplistic review,” the monk said.

“Then do elaborate.”

“The men we held were not captured, they were rescued. Rescued from certain death and healed of grievous wounds through the power of Blessed Abelle, by the brothers of Blessed Abelle.”

“That does not give us the right to hold them as prisoner!” Cormack argued. “You cannot so coerce fealty to faith!”

Gwydre looked from Cormack back to De Guilbe, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage.

“Our manner is of no concern to Dame Gwydre,” Father De Guilbe said to her. “My orders came from Father Artolivan of Chapel Abelle. To him alone do I answer.”

“True enough,” Dame Gwydre conceded. “But a writ is mine to give, and so I do, to both Cormack and this woman, Milkeila, though I would like to speak at length with you both before it is finalized.”

“Yes, Dame Gwydre,” Cormack said, and Milkeila graciously bowed.