T Lain - Return of the Damned

“Lindroos,” said Alhandra. She stepped up beside him and was looking at the same janni. “Yes, it is she.”

“Then she has the duke.” Regdar looked around, taking stock of the situation. The fighting had slowed. The final surge made by the invaders was no more than a last ditch effort to grab the duke. When Lindroos left the field, the jann also departed. Deprived of their leader and their strongest shock troops, the cultists were no match for the rallying New Koratians. Most were already dead, in custody, or fleeing for their lives.

Naull ran up, pointing at the duke and Lindroos, both being flown over the wall of the city by jann. “We can’t let her get that bottle.”

Regdar nodded. “When I retrieved it, the duke seemed quite relieved to have it in his possession. I’m sure it’s well hidden.”

“Still,” said Alhandra, “Lindroos can be quite persuasive. We need to get to her before she gets to him, or retrieve the bottle ourselves.”

Regdar agreed. “But who knows where he’s hidden the bottle? The keep is a labyrinth. Something as small as a bottle could be anywhere. Just finding the duke and Lindroos could take us days.”

“The bottle is in a warded vault,” said a voice.

Regdar turned to see Captain Masters nursing a wounded leg as he limped toward him. “It’s in his bedroom, behind the picture of King Ramas.”

“Put me down there,” commanded Lindroos, pointing to a spot in the courtyard. “Near the door.”

The janni did as Lindroos commanded, setting her down gently before the door on the edge of the courtyard inside the ducal palace. The other janni set the duke down next to her.

The minute Duke Ramas had his feet on the ground, Lindroos punched him in the face, and the duke fell backward.

Lindroos nodded to the jann. They proceeded to disarm the old, fallen fighter.

“I want you to understand, Ramas,” said the blackguard, pacing before him, testing the sharpness of her blade as a chef might test her cleaver, “I have no qualms about killing you.” She leaned down, smiling in his face. “In fact, I think I’d enjoy it.”

Christo Ramas simply nodded.

Lindroos stood up. “Good,” she said. “As long as you play along and behave, there’s no reason for me to torture or maim you.” She pointed the tip of her sword at him. “You don’t want to be maimed, do you Ramas?”

The duke shook his head.

The jann stepped back, taking the duke’s weapons and most of his armor with them.

“You two stay and guard this entrance,” she ordered. “The duke is going to show me where he’s keeping our friend trapped inside a terribly cramped bottle.”

Regdar’s lungs burned inside his chest. He’d never run so far so fast, wearing heavy armor, in all his life. He tried to distract himself by looking at the things around him. The ground was littered with dead or dying soldiers—that didn’t make him feel any better. Beside him, Tasca and Whitman ran at full speed.

Whitman was having a hard time of it, trying to keep up. With his typical determination and his teeth gritted tight, the dwarf carried on, charging toward New Koratia with all of his strength. His boots of speed helped briefly, but in the end it was Whitman’s willpower that allowed him to stay with the elf and the human.

Tasca, on the other hand, made the run seem effortless. He smiled when Regdar looked at him. Then he shrugged, obviously responding to the look of confusion on Regdar’s face. The elf was as composed and casual as a princess at a harvest festival.

The eastern wall of the city came up quickly. Regdar felt as if he’d never make it, and he’d never been so happy to be wrong. The arched entranceway was completely unguarded. The group headed into the city, toward the bridge from the Merchants’ Quarter over the river to the duke’s island keep.

Under normal circumstances, Regdar would have expected to be stopped at several checkpoints along their route. Security getting over the River Delnir onto the island in the middle of New Koratia was always tough. Being attacked by an army of mercenaries and genies was hardly normal circumstances for the trading city.

Duke Ramas limped down the long, dark corridor.

“Move it, Ramas,” ordered Lindroos, jabbing the tip of her blackened blade into his back. The jann had removed the duke’s chestplate, leaving only a linen shirt between the weapon and his skin.

Christo stumbled forward, pulling away from the blade but hopping gingerly on his injured leg. He turned and glared at the blackguard.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” he said through gritted teeth. “If that bothers you, take it up with your goons who smashed up my leg.”

Lindroos shoved him down the hall. “Tell your sob story to someone who cares,” she said. “And keep moving.”

Christo glared for a moment longer, his eyes locked with hers, then he turned and continued down the hall. He took three limping steps before Lindroos shoved him again. Skipping forward a step, he caught his balance, then reversed directions.

His elbow flew backward and smashed Lindroos in the nose. The sound of crunching cartilage was magnified by the narrow stone corridor, and blood trickled down the blackguard’s face. With her arms flailing to her sides, she stepped back, touched a hand to her lip, then looked down on the crimson smear on her fingertips.

The duke wheeled around, pivoting on his good leg, and lifted his fists in front of his face—one slightly higher than the other, both right below his eyes. Setting his feet shoulder width apart, he braced himself for a fight.

Lindroos rubbed her wrist across her face, clearing most of the blood. Her nose pointed off in a different direction than it had only moments before. Lifting her sword, she pointed the tip at the duke.

“How valiant,” she said. “Fighting an armed opponent with just your bare hands. I see why they made you duke.” She punched a fist in the air, followed by a parody of a kick. “Did they teach you to box in aristocrat school?” she asked, laughing.

Christo lunged forward and jabbed with his right hand. His punch was blindingly quick, and it caught the mocking blackguard on the chin. Her head slammed back, and she almost lost her balance again.

Lowering her head, Lindroos rubbed the back of her neck and her cheek. After opening and closing her jaw several times, she turned her attention back to Christo.

“Okay, old man,” she said, “I’m through being pleasant.” With a quick feint to the right, Lindroos lunged and caught the duke in the crook of his right arm. Her sword opened a wound in his exposed bicep from elbow to shoulder.

Duke Ramas hissed and limped back. The wound bled freely. When he tried flexing his arm, he could see the slashed muscles moving across each other under the flow of blood. The pain made his vision grow narrow, so he let the arm hang straight down his side. With his good arm he steadied himself against the wall.

Lindroos stepped forward and punched him hard in the face with the pommel of her sword. The duke’s knees went weak, and he collapsed onto the stone floor.

The blackguard leaned over the bleeding old warrior. “Don’t make me kill you here,” she said. Lifting her sword to the side of his head, she slashed off a piece of his ear.

Christo let out a cry and put his hand up to protect his head. Warm blood ran down the side of his neck. “If you kill me, you’ll never get the bottle,” he spat.

Lindroos leaned down and picked up the ragged bit of ear. “If I kill you, I’ll take you apart bone by bone until you wish you’d never heard of that bottle,” she hissed. “And I’ll still find it, if I have to dismantle this city brick by brick.”