Shadowfall g-1 Page 10

  He rolled immediately to his feet, crouched, ready for another attack.

  Delia remained where she was, eyes wide.

  The daemon had vanished, vanquished with a touch.

  Tylar stared down at his body. He flexed his sword hand. What was crushed under iron was new again. He was healed. Entirely and wholly. As if he’d never been injured.

  He fingered the mark on his chest.

  Something stirred deep inside, something too large to be held in a cage of bone.

  The daemon.

  It had not been vanquished, but simply returned to the hale body that was its roost.

  Rogger reached them, panting. “I’d say from the looks of you that you’re fit enough for a bit of running. Something I think we should be testing ’bout now.”

  Tylar glanced back across the courtyard. With the shadowbeast gone, the guards would not wait. Already shouts rose from the castillion guard. Tylar turned. Ahead the gate lay open and, for the moment, unguarded.

  He pointed. “Off with us then!”

  As they ran, the woman followed.

  Tylar waved her off. “Begone. This is none of your concern.”

  “No! Where you go, I go!”

  “Why? What madness is this?”

  “I don’t know how or why,” she gasped at him as she ran, “but you carry Meeryn’s blood in you. I saw it shining from your lash marks. And in the eyes of the winged creature, the glow of Grace… It was Meeryn, too!”

  “And you would go with the man accused of her slaying?”

  She countered, but less surely, “No man can kill one of the Hundred.”

  Tylar shook his head and mumbled, “You could’ve voiced that sentiment earlier.”

  Rogger laughed as he reached the gate. “That’s a woman for you. A fickle lot, the bunch of ’em.”

  They passed under the empty archway, Rogger leading the way. The moonlit streets of the high city opened ahead. The thief pointed. “I have a few friends in Lower Punt who-”

  Before he could finish, a fold of shadow fluttered from the archway to Tylar’s left. He caught a flash of silver slashing down toward him. He leaped headlong, reacting with old instincts. He landed in a roll and jumped back to his feet. He twisted around, now crouched in the cobbled streets outside the archway.

  Rogger fled to one side, Delia to the other.

  From the gate, a figure of flowing shadows stepped into the moonlight, forsaking its hiding place. The Shadowknight held a length of silver in his grip. His blessed sword.

  Rogger swore. “It seems we bottled that beastie of yours a natch too soon.”

  Tylar kept to the brightness under the moon, praying the knight’s shadow-borne speed would be dulled in the light. He waved the others back, but kept his eyes focused on the Shadowknight.

  “Godslayer,” Darjon hissed, stepping forward. “At last the hammer revealed the truth you hid so well. You are no man! But I’ve seen you bleed-and what bled once can bleed again!”

  Before Tylar could answer, the knight leaped with a fury-driven speed, fast even in the moonlight.

  Tylar spun from the stroke. The stabbing blade passed under his arm, grazing his side with a slice of fire. He ignored the pain, continued to twist, and brought himself under the knight’s guard. He slammed an elbow into the knight’s midriff, knocking him back a step.

  Darjon used the force of Tylar’s blow to fall backward, rolling cleanly in his shadowcloak and back to his feet, sword at the ready.

  Tylar knew this was a battle he could not win. Though his bones had been healed, he was still weak from blood loss and fatigued from all that had transpired.

  Darjon’s eyes narrowed above his masklin. His cloak billowed back to the waiting shadows. The edges of his form blurred as the Grace of shadow flowed into the knight, building toward a power that Tylar could not match.

  Rogger noted the same. “Tylar! Here!”

  From the corner of his eyes, Tylar spotted the flash of silver. The thief’s dagger. Without turning, Tylar lifted a hand and caught the flying knife. He flipped it to his other hand, keeping it low. A dagger was a poor weapon against the blessed weapon of a Shadowknight, but it was better than bare hands.

  Tylar attempted to watch every muscle of his combatant, but shadowy Graces blurred lines and edges, fogging detail, making it difficult to anticipate an attack. Tylar had worn such a cloak for many years. It had been a second skin, as much a weapon as the sword.

  But every weapon had a weakness.

  Shadows built up behind Darjon, filling the archway. Beyond, shouts from the castillion guard grew louder. The stamp of boots hurried along the parapets, approaching fast. Darjon merely had to hold Tylar here for a few moments longer.

  But the Shadowknight would not settle for such a victory.

  Darjon leaped forward with a surge of shadows that made it hard to tell where darkness ended and form began.

  Tylar squinted, aimed, and tossed the dagger with the full strength of his arm. It flew true, but shadows shifted out of the way, too swiftly. The flash of the small blade passed harmlessly over the knight’s shoulder and away.

  Unchecked, Darjon continued his lunge, sword leading the way, propelled upon a wave of darkness.

  A distant thunk sounded as the dagger struck wood.

  Tylar allowed a grim smile to form as he hurdled straight back, the sword’s point scribing his chest.

  Then the plunge of the blade simply stopped, jerked to a halt.

  Darjon’s charge turned into an uncontrolled tumble. He landed hard on the cobbles, tangled in his own cloak, betrayed by the very weapon that served him.

  His sword bounced from his fingers and skittered across the stone to Tylar’s toes. Bending, but never taking his eyes from the knight, Tylar retrieved the weapon.

  Darjon twisted, staring back toward the archway as shadows collapsed around him, dissolving under the weight of moonlight. Impaled into the gate’s wooden frame was Tylar’s dagger-and pinned beneath the blade was a snatch of cloth, the edge of Darjon’s shadowcloak.

  Still entangled, Darjon swore and tugged, attempting to free his cloak, but it held securely.

  Blessed or not, cloth was cloth.

  Horns blared stridently from the castillion walls and were answered from the courtyard.

  Tylar backed away, carrying the knight’s sword. The diamond-hilted blade was granted to a Shadowknight upon receiving his third stripe of knighthood. It was bonded in blood to the wielder, a cherished emblem of the Order. Darjon would miss it as much as his own right arm. Tylar motioned with his stolen sword toward the empty streets. “The guards come swiftly. We must be away.”

  Rogger and Delia closed the distance between them, and as a group, they fled the heights of Summer Mount.

  Tylar led the way swiftly, slipping along alleys and narrows, heading down from the high city and into the lower. The night stretched ahead of them, but dawn could not be far.

  Mourners still crowded the lower streets, ringing bells, lifting tankards of ale. Tylar and the others slid among them, becoming harder to track. Here, any word of daemons and escaped prisoners fell on drunken ears, deafened further by the countless bells.

  Even the horns chasing them grew distant, their blaring cries slipping farther and farther behind. Tylar suspected more than one guard was happy to let them escape, unwilling to challenge a godslayer and the daemon he could summon.

  As Tylar donned a cloak stolen from an ale-soaked mourner, Rogger spoke in quiet tones. “You should’ve killed that knight back there. He’ll not rest until one of you is dead.”

  Tylar scowled, picturing the bald fury in the knight’s eyes. “Mistaken or not, the man was doing his duty. I will not cut him down in the streets for that.”

  Rogger shook his head, scratching his beard. “You may live to regret such mercy.”

  “I’ll settle for living until the morning.”

  As they continued through the lower streets, a sharp cry drew Tylar’s attention to a side a
lley. His step slowed. It was a woman’s cry. Two large men clutched a girl between them, their rough intentions clear. She struggled, sobbing.

  Tylar knew these assailants. Frowning, he glanced to the sign hanging above the neighboring door-the Wooden Frog.

  It was Bargo and Yorga.

  Rogger stood at his shoulder. “Why have you stopped?”

  “Stay here.” Tylar strode into the alley, sword low. It was time someone put an end to this pair’s tyranny over the weak.

  Yorga held the girl in a thick-armed hug, while his partner fumbled with the ties to his breeches. Bargo was having trouble, too drunk to make his fingers work. But he blearily noted Tylar’s approach. “Wait your turn,” he slurred thickly. “You can have ’er after we’re done.”

  Tylar recognized the lass, one of the Frog’s tavern wenches, no more than sixteen. She met his eyes, terrified.

  He moved from the alley’s shadow into a slice of moonlight, keeping his sword beside his leg. “Should I be jealous?” he asked, stepping around. “I thought those pinpricks of yours stiffened only for me.”

  Yorga focused on him. His mouth opened. Without a tongue, he could only gurgle his surprise.

  Bargo swung around, half-teetering. He had finally managed to free his waggling manhood, flopping at half-mast. His eyes traveled up and down Tylar’s form. “You! The… the scabber knight.”

  Yorga shoved the girl away. She landed on her hands and knees, crawled a few steps, then jumped up and fled in tears.

  The two Ai’men bunched together, filling the alley, blocking the exit.

  “There’s no Shadowknight to protect you now,” Bargo grunted.

  “No,” Tylar agreed and lifted the blade into view. “But I do have his sword.”

  The brawlers paused, clearly recognizing the black diamond on the hilt.

  He leaped at them, moving with a swiftness borne not of shadow, but of fury and retribution. If it weren’t for these two, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament. None of this would’ve happened. All he had wanted was a pint of ale to celebrate his birth year.

  Bargo tried to swat his sword aside, but Tylar parried and stabbed at the man’s flesh. Tylar sliced where it would do the most good, proving there was more than one way to cut a man down.

  Bargo yowled, falling to the side.

  Tylar spun on a toe and slipped between the two brawlers. Yorga grabbed at him as he passed, but Tylar easily ducked, escaped the pair, and backed to the exit.

  Yorga swung around as Bargo continued to moan, sliding down the wall.

  Tylar waved his sword in clear warning at the tongueless man. Unless Yorga foolishly pressed, no more blood needed to be shed. As a knight, Tylar had been schooled to use his head as much as his sword.

  Yorga was clearly subservient to Bargo, his lack of tongue binding him by need to his partner. And with Bargo’s brutality plainly fueled by lust, it required only one keen cut to end this pair’s tyranny, altering their relationship forever.

  “I’ve found you a new tongue,” Tylar called to Yorga, pointing to the severed manhood lying in the alley’s filth. “I don’t think Bargo will be needing it any longer.”

  Bargo clutched his groin, blood welling between his fingers. Yorga stood, dazed.

  “You’d best look after your friend,” Tylar finished and joined Rogger and Delia in the street. Horns could be heard in the distance. “Let’s go.”

  Rogger glanced a final time down the alley. “Remind me never to get on your sour side.”

  After another stretch, the trio left the streets and pushed into the black warren that was Punt. It greeted them with its reek, dark laughter, and sudden cries.

  “You have friends down here?” Tylar asked Rogger.

  “Aye… as well as anyone could have friends in Punt.”

  Delia slunk closer to them. Dressed in her finery, she was as out of place as a diamond in a sow’s ear. Throughout their long flight, he had tried to get her to flee, to head back to Summer Mount.

  Her answer was always the same: “I have nothing back there. All I cherish is tied to you.”

  He hadn’t pushed too hard. He had a thousand questions he wanted answered, and she seemed to know more than she let on.

  But the handmaiden wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  Tylar watched as Rogger led the way now, heading toward whatever low friends he knew down here. He remembered the thief’s shout as his sword hand was pulped under the hammer, repeating words supposedly spoken by himself in ancient Littick.

  Agee wan clyy… nee wan dred ghawl.

  Break the bone… and free the dark spirit.

  After what happened, the truth of those words could not be denied. There was clearly more to this bearded thief than lice and larceny.

  Rogger wended down byways and crawl throughs. Here the walls ran thick with black mold, and the buildings tilted drunkenly. Windows, when not broken, were shuttered tight against the night. The trio had to fight through piles of refuse, chasing rats and dire vermin from underfoot. The air reeked of fetid humours, blood and bile of every ilk.

  As they marched, Delia paled even further. With her black-daubed lips and dark hazel eyes, she looked like some risen ghoul, fresh from the grave. Her dress was soiled and clung heavily to her. She had long shed her lace cap, revealing black hair, lanky and loose to her shoulders.

  Occasionally some scabber would spy at them from afar, but Tylar kept his sword in plain sight. None could mistake the weapon… nor the stripes on his face.

  Let them think me a knight if it will hold the worst at bay.

  But Tylar suspected there was a clearer reason they passed the narrows unmolested. The underfolk had an uncanny ability to pass information from one mouth to another. The creatures of Punt knew a godslayer walked their streets and stayed away.

  Delia spoke at his side, her voice soft and concerned. “Are you hurt?”

  Tylar glanced to her as he walked, the confusion plain on his face. Was she asking if there were any repercussions from his torture?

  “You’re limping,” she said, nodding to his gait. “And hunched oddly.”

  Tylar straightened. Distracted, he hadn’t even noticed himself falling into old patterns, moving as if his body were still broken. He continued onward, forcing himself to walk more evenly.

  Rogger cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your bones may be healed, but I ’spect it’ll take a bit longer for your mind to catch up.”

  Tylar scowled and waved him onward.

  At last, Rogger ducked along a dark alleyway and marched up to a low door made of rusted iron. “Here we are.” He knocked.

  A small window opened, enough to peer through.

  “Show yourself,” a dark figure spat at them.

  Rogger turned, lifted the edge of his pilfered cloak, and bared his naked arse to the doorman.

  Delia covered her mouth at such a rude introduction.

  Rogger, still bent over, noted her response. “Have to prove I’m a thief.”

  Tylar recalled the sigil branded on the man’s buttock. A sliding bolt scraped, and the door swung open on oiled hinges.

  “What is this place?” Tylar asked.

  “Guildhouse of the Black Flag,” Rogger answered, straightening and covering himself.

  “Black Flaggers?” Delia lowered her hand. “Scuttlers and pirates? These are your friends?”

  Rogger shrugged. “Now’s not the time to be choosy, my dear. We need a way off this island.”

  Tylar couldn’t argue with that.

  “Besides, I’m owed a favor here.”

  “A favor?” Tylar asked.

  Rogger waved a hand. “From another life, ser knight… one life among many.” He glanced significantly at Tylar. “Truly, who lives only one life?”

  Tylar motioned with his sword. “Let’s get this done.”

  Rogger climbed down a narrow passage, surprisingly clean. Tiny braziers blazed merrily at corners, scented with thyme and honeythistle to drive away the worst
of Punt’s odors.

  After crossing several side passages, the main chamber opened at the end of the corridor. A pair of men, faces blackened by ash, flanked the entry. They dwarfed Bargo and Yorga, clearly loam-giants, young men blessed in the Grace of loam. They leaned on heavy axes, looking bored, but Tylar knew how swiftly such giants could move.

  Rogger nodded to them, good-naturedly. They followed his passage as if he were a scrabbling ant.

  The same could not be said for the room’s lone occupant. A voice boomed from beyond a desk. “Rogger! I can’t believe it!”

  A tall figure rose, dressed in a fine cut of black leather, from boots to cap. The man’s face was ash blackened, a custom among the Flaggers, making them harder to identify, even among their own guild.

  But no one could mistake this pirate. His hair was snowy white from years of salt and sun. The length was knotted and hung over one shoulder, striking against his black leathers.

  Rogger pulled on his beard and crossed to shake the man’s hand. “Krevan! It is good to see that no shear has come within a lick of you! Before long you’ll be tripping over that rat’s nest.”

  “The same could be said of that beard of yours.”

  They clasped hands.

  The sun-crinkled eyes of the pirate traveled past Rogger to Tylar and Delia. “I see you brought the godslayer with you.”

  Tylar started, his fingers tightening on his sword.

  Rogger merely shrugged.

  Krevan released the thief’s hand with a short laugh. “Then again, you always kept the strangest companions. I remember that blood witch from Nevering who-”

  “Please!” Rogger interrupted. “There is a lady present.”

  “Of course.” Krevan broke into a soft smile, gentle and respectful. “My lady, be welcome.”

  Delia offered the smallest curtsy.

  Rogger opened his mouth, but Krevan cut him off with a lifted hand.

  “Yes, a boat. I know. Arrangements are already under way.

  The Flaggers know how to repay a debt, even one owed as long as yours. But…?” His smile faded into harder lines.

  Rogger nodded. “To cross ships downline, many palms will need pressing.”

  Krevan sank back to lean on his desk.