Морган Райс
Realm of Dragons
CHAPTER SEVEN
Princess Erin knew she shouldn’t be here, riding through the forest on the way north to the Spur. She should be back at the castle, being fitted for a dress for her older sister’s wedding, but just the thought of it was enough to make her wince.
It brought too many thoughts of what might be waiting for her next, and why she’d left. At the very least, she would rather be riding here in tunic, doublet, and breeches than standing there playing dress-up while Rodry made fun of her with his friends, and Greave moped about, and Vars… Erin shuddered. No, better to be out here, doing something useful, something that would prove she was more than just some daughter to marry off.
She rode through the forest, taking in the plants along the side of the path as she passed, even though those were more Nerra’s fascination than hers. She rode past broad oak and silver birch, seeing the shadows they cast and trying not to think about all the spaces those shadows gave for someone to hide.
Her father would probably be angry with her for coming out without an escort. Princesses needed to be protected, he would tell her. They didn’t wander off alone into places like this, places where the trees seemed to close in and the path was little more than a suggestion. He would be angry at her for more than that, of course. He probably thought she hadn’t heard the conversation with her mother, the one that had sent her off practically running for the stables.
“We need to find a husband for Erin,” her mother had said.
“A husband? She’s as likely to ask for more sword lessons,” her father had replied.
“And that’s the point. A girl shouldn’t be doing such things, putting herself in that kind of danger. We need to find a husband for her.”
“After the wedding,” her father had said. “There will be plenty of nobles there for the feasting and the hunting. Maybe we can find a young man who will make a suitable husband for her.”
“We might need to offer a dowry for her.”
“Then we will. Gold, a dukedom, whatever is most suitable for my daughter.”
The betrayal had been instant, and absolute. Erin had strode to her room to gather her things: her staff and her clothes, a pack full of supplies. She had sworn to herself then that she wouldn’t be coming back.
“Besides,” she said to her horse, “I’m old enough to do what I want.”
She might be the youngest of all her siblings, but she was still sixteen. She might not be everything her mother wanted—too boyish with her dark hair cut at shoulder level where it wouldn’t get in the way, never inclined to sew or curtsey or play the harp—but she was still more than capable of looking after herself.
At least, she thought she was.
She would have to be, if she wanted to join the Knights of the Spur. Just the name of their order made Erin’s heart leap. They were the finest warriors of the realm, every name among them a hero. They served her father, but also rode out righting wrongs and fighting foes that no others could. Erin would give anything to join them.
That was why she was riding north, to the Spur. That was also why she was taking this route, through parts of the forest long thought dangerous.
She rode on, taking in the place. Any other time, it would have been beautiful, but then, any other time, she wouldn’t have been here. Instead, she looked around, eyes darting, all too aware of the shadows on each side of the path, the way the branches brushed at her as she rode. It was a place where she could imagine someone disappearing, never to return.
Even so, it was the route she had to take if she was going to reach the Knights of the Spur. Especially if she wanted to be able to impress them when she got there. Set beside that, her fear didn’t matter.
“Why don’t you stop there?” a voice from further along the forest path called.
There. Erin felt a brief thrill of fear at the words, the flutter running up through her belly. She drew her horse to a halt, then swung down from the saddle smoothly. Almost as an afterthought, she took down her short staff, gloved hands carrying it lightly.
“Now, what do you think you’re going to do with that stick?” the man from further down the forest path said. He stepped out, dressed in rough-spun clothes and holding a hatchet. Two more men stepped out from the trees behind Erin, one holding a long knife, the other an arming sword that suggested he might once have fought on behalf of a nobleman.
“Back in a village I passed through,” Erin said, “they told me about bandits in the forest.”
They didn’t seem to think it was odd that she’d come here anyway. Erin could feel the fear inside her. Should she have come here? She’d had plenty of training bouts, but this… this was different.
“Looks as though we’re famous, boys,” the leader called out with a laugh.
Famous was one word for it. In the village, she’d spoken to a young woman who was traveling with her husband. She had said that even when they gave these men everything they had, they still wanted more, and they took it. She had detailed all of it to Erin, and Erin had wished she’d had Lenore’s way with people, or Nerra’s compassion. Erin didn’t have either; all she had was this.
“They say you kill those who fight,” Erin said.
“Well then,” the leader said. “You’ll know not to fight.”
“Barely worth it,” one of the others said. “Hardly a girl at all.”
“You’re complaining?” the leader shot back. “The things you’ve done with boys as well?”
Erin stood there, waiting. The fear was still there, and it had grown into a monstrous thing, a bear-sized thing that threatened to crush her into immobility. She shouldn’t have come here. This wasn’t a training bout, and she had never truly fought anyone before. She was just a young woman who was about to be killed, or worse…
No. Erin thought about that, thought about the woman from the village, and she forced the fear down, under the anger.
“If you want to make this easy on yourself, you’ll hand over everything you have. The horse, your valuables, everything.”
“And take off those clothes,” the other who’d spoken said. “It will save us getting blood on them.”
Erin swallowed, thinking about what that might mean. “No.”
“Well then,” the leader said. “Looks like we do this the hard way.”
The one with the long knife came at Erin first, grabbing for her and slashing with it at her body. Erin broke the grip, but the blade slid through her clothing as easily as it might have through a milkmaid’s butter. The man’s leer of triumph quickly turned to shock as the blade stopped, caught with the sound of metal on metal.
“Taking off a coat of mail is hard work,” Erin said.
She struck out with her staff, smashing the man in the face with the haft, causing him to stagger back. The leader came at her with his hatchet and, bringing her weapon across, she knocked it to one side. She struck out with the end, jabbing it into the man’s throat so that he gurgled and stumbled away.
“Bitch!” the knifeman said.
Now Erin twisted the staff, drawing off the end to reveal the long blade beneath that ran almost half its length. The dappled light of the forest shone darkly from it. In the weird, calm space that followed, she spoke. No point in disguising anything now.
“When I was young, my mother made me take sewing lessons, but the woman who taught us was nearly blind, and Nerra, my sister, used to cover for me while I ran out and fought the boys with sticks. When my mother found out, she was angry, but my father said that I might as well learn properly, and he was the king, so…”
“Your father’s the king?” the leader said. Fear crossed his face, closely followed by greed. “If they catch us, they’ll kill us, but they would have done that anyway, and the ransom we’ll get for someone like you…”
Probably they would pay it. Although, given what Erin had overheard and the amount they’d been prepared to pay to get rid of her…
The bandit lunged forward for Erin again, interrupting her train of thought by swinging his hatchet and then kicking out at her. Erin swept the hatchet blow aside one-handed, pushed at the man’s elbow, and then kicked him in the knee as he tried to kick her, sending him stumbling to the ground. Her teacher would probably be angry that she hadn’t followed up.
Keep moving, end it quickly, take no chances. Erin could almost hear the words of her teacher, Swordmaster Wendros. He had been the one to tell her to use the short spear, a weapon that could make up for her lack of height and power with its speed and reach. Erin had been a little disappointed by the choice at the time, but she wasn’t now.
Taking a two-handed grip on her weapon, she spun, covering as the one with a sword came at her. She set blows aside one after another, then aimed a cut of her own at him. A spear can cut as well as thrust. He went to deflect the strike, his sword rising up to meet it, and Erin rolled her wrists to send her blade dancing under the block, the spear’s point lancing forward to thrust through his neck. Even as he died, the man flailed another blow at her, and Erin struck it aside, already moving on.
Do not stop. Keep moving until the fight is done.
“She’s killed him!” the knifeman shouted. “She’s killed Ferris!”
He lunged at her with the long knife, obviously trying to kill, not capture. He rushed in, trying to get in close where the greater length of Erin’s weapon wouldn’t count. Erin made to step back, then moved in even closer than he expected, wheeling him over her hip so he landed with a whoosh of escaping air…
Or he would have if he hadn’t dragged her down with him.
Showy, girl. Just do what’s needed.
It was too late for that now, because she was on the floor with the knifeman, caught there while he stabbed at her, only her coat of mail keeping her from death. She’d been overconfident, and now she was in a space where the man’s greater strength was starting to tell. He was on top of her now, pushing the knife down toward her throat…
Somehow, Erin managed to get close enough to bite him, and that gave her enough room to scramble free, no art or skill to it now, only desperation. The leader was back on his feet by now, swinging his weapon again. Erin parried the first blow, barely, on her knees, took a kick to the midsection, and spat blood as she came up.
“You picked the wrong people to mess with, bitch,” the leader said and went for an overhand stroke, aimed at her head.
There was no time to dodge, no time to parry. All Erin could do was duck down and thrust up with her spear. She felt the crunch as it went through flesh, expected to feel the impact of her foe’s weapon in her own body, but for a moment, things just froze. She dared to look up, and he was there, transfixed on the end of her spear, so busy staring down at the weapon that he hadn’t finished his own attack.
It is a fine thing to be lucky, and a stupid thing to rely on it, Swordmaster Wendros’s voice sounded in her mind.
The knifeman was still down, struggling to rise.
“Mercy, please,” the knifeman said.
“Mercy?” Erin said. “How much mercy did you show to the people you robbed, and killed, and raped? When they begged you, did you laugh at them? Did you run them down when they fled? How much mercy would you have shown me?”
“Please,” the man said, standing. He turned to run, probably hoping he could outpace Erin in the trees.
She almost let him go, but what would he do then? How many more people would die when he thought he could get away with it again? She reversed her blade, hefted it, and flung it.
Over a long distance, it wouldn’t have worked, because the spear was shorter than a true javelin, but over the short space between them it sailed through the air perfectly, plunging through the bandit point first and bringing him to the ground. Erin stepped over to him, set a foot on his back, and dragged it out. Lifting it, she brought it down sharply on his neck.
“That’s as much mercy as I have today,” she said.
She stood there, then moved to the side of the track, suddenly nauseous. It had felt so right and so easy when she’d been fighting, but now…
She threw up. She’d never killed anyone before, and now the horror and the stench of it were almost overwhelming. She knelt there for what felt like hours before her mind insisted that she should move. Swordmaster Wendros’s voice came to her again…
When it is done, it is done. You focus on the practical, and you don’t regret any of it.
That was easier said than done, but Erin forced herself to her feet. She cleaned her sword on their clothes, then dragged the bodies to the side of the track. That was the hardest part of all of it, because they were all bigger than she was, and a corpse felt heavier than a living thing too. By the time she was done, there was more blood on her clothes than there had been from the fight, not to mention the cut where the knifeman had struck. She had the strange, sudden thought that she was going to have to make sure they got to a servant to mend before her mother saw them. She laughed at that, and for several moments, she couldn’t stop laughing.
Battle nerves. The greatest threat to a swordsman, and the greatest drug the world has ever known.
Erin stood there a moment or two longer, letting the excitement of the fight run through her veins. She’d killed men, and she’d done more than that. She’d proved herself. The Knights of the Spur would have to take her now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Renard kept coming to the Inn of the Broken Scale for three main reasons, and none of them had to do with the frankly terrible beer. The first was the barmaid Yselle, who seemed to have a thing for burly men with red hair like him, and who seemed to alternate between accusing him of cheating on her and demanding that he come by more often.
The second reason was that, on the days when he was inclined to try to make an honest living, they didn’t mind him taking out his lute and playing a few of the old ballads. Mostly, Renard didn’t feel like doing it, but sometimes his fingers itched for the performance.
The third reason was that his fingers more often itched for other things, and the inn was a good place to hear rumors.
“It sounds too much like a story,” he said to the man opposite him, carefully using the distraction to switch a card for one of those he had hidden in his sleeve.
“Ye can call it a story if you like, but I saw it with my own eyes,” the man insisted. He was dressed in rough sailor’s clothes, and claimed that he worked on the ships that sailed the long route out, away from the crippling rapids of the river and across the sea. That alone made Renard suspicious. Sailors were madmen; had to be, when it was far easier to trade via the bridges between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms than to stray into the dangers of deep water.
“So tell me again,” Renard said, laying down his cards.
“Ha, I win!” the sailor said. “I never normally have this luck.”
That’s because you’re so awful at cards, Renard didn’t say. He wasn’t sure he agreed with having to cheat to lose, as it seemed to defeat the whole point of cheating, frankly, but hopefully the payoff would be better than the losses.
“Tell me again,” Renard insisted.
“Ah, eager to get a new song out of it?” the sailor said.
“Maybe.”
“Well, this is probably not for songs,” the sailor said. “Lord Carrick wouldn’t like it.”
Renard shrugged. “Tell me anyway. Maybe I’ll change a few things. You know what liars singers get to be.”
“Aye,” the sailor said. He took another swig of the beer Renard had bought him. “Gods, this is awful stuff. Now, where was I?”
“The story.”
“Oh, yes. Well, I was crewing on a treasure ship, wasn’t I, going out the long way because King Ravin has to be paid by his colonies out west, out on Sarras.”
The mention of the Southern king was enough to keep Renard’s interest. “And then what?”
“Caught the edge of one of the tides, didn’t we?” the sailor said. “Went too close to the mouth of the river’s estuary in the wrong tide, and got ourselves sucked onto the rocks.” The look of horror on his face as he thought about it was enough to make Renard believe him. Why anyone would chance going near the powerful pull of the Slate, he didn’t know.
“I barely got off,” the man said. “Me and a few of the others. Obviously, the captain’s dead by that point, and some of the lads are stupid enough to go to the local lord, say what we have, say that they’ll show him where, for a price.”
“And you know that how?” Renard said.
“Because one of them came to me after, looking frightened, like he’d done the stupidest thing in his life. Maybe he had, because I’ve not seen him since. From what he said, they took Lord Carrick down to the spot where we washed up, and he had his men pick it clean; took the treasure back to his grand house in the city. Then he had those who knew about it killed. My friend barely got away.”
He was probably dead now, Renard mused. So, probably, would the sailor be in a few days. Lord Carrick was not rumored to be a kind or gentle lord. The inn sat on his lands, and there were plenty who came through who had their complaints about him. Quietly, if they had sense. Of course, that was what made this prospect so appealing.
“What kind of treasure was on this ship?” Renard asked.
“Why? Planning to go and ask his lordship for some of it?”
Renard forced a laugh at that. “Ha, maybe, or maybe I just need the details for my song. What was it? Statues? Art? Gold bars?”
“Coin,” the sailor said, and Renard heaved a silent sigh of relief. If it had been any of the things he’d mentioned, they would have been far too heavy to carry. “Southern pieces mostly, but a few things stamped with the colonies’ marks. My friend said they had a clerk count every piece into a book when they took it.” He shook his head. “Probably killed him too.”
Renard could see why the man was drinking so much. Probably he knew what was coming for him. Probably he thought he might as well see out his last days blind drunk.
“Well,” he said, “as stories go, it needs a little work. For a better ending, we really need a cunning but handsome thief to sweep in and take it all from under his lordship’s nose.”
“Ah, now that would be a thing,” the sailor said. “But that don’t happen in real life. Thieves mostly rob other poor folk, who can’t fight back, not rich bastards who can hire guards.”
“True enough,” Renard said. “Still, it’s a nice thought. Same again?”
“Sure,” the sailor said.
Renard found himself wondering if he should keep going with this. Was this something he wanted to push forward with? Did he want to risk annoying Yselle more than usual with this? His purse gave him the answer to that. He needed the coin.
Renard stood and went toward the bar. Yselle was there, and Renard couldn’t decide if she was in one of the moods where she cared about his existence or not.
“You’re doing a lot of talking to that sailor,” she observed.
“Well, I’m a very friendly person,” Renard pointed out, with his most charming smile.
“Oh, stop that, you think I don’t know when you’re lying to me?” Yselle said.
“Would I lie to one so beautiful?” Renard asked.
“Almost constantly,” the barmaid retorted. “It’s just as well you’re pretty, or I’d have thrown you out on your ear months ago.”
“Pretty?” Renard affected wounded pride. “I am dashing, and handsome, but not—”
“Pretty,” Yselle said firmly. “Pretty as a maiden, though we both know you’re not that. Now, did you want something?”
“Tell me about Lord Carrick,” Renard said.
Yselle shrugged. “What’s to tell? You know all the stories, probably better than I do with that lute of yours. You know that he’s hard on the peasants, takes his share and more of their crops, and hangs any who complain. You know he has more serfs than most, and treats them worse. What else do you want?”
Renard considered. “Someone who knows the layout of his home would be useful.”
Yselle frowned at that. “No, Renard. That would be stupid.”
“Not knowing the layout would be stupid,” Renard countered. “This is just being prepared.”
“You know what I mean,” Yselle said. “Doing what you’re thinking of doing would be a special kind of stupid, even by your standards.”
“Well, a man should always try for self-betterment,” Renard said. He slid a few more coins across the bar and raised an eyebrow. “Who, Yselle?”
She hesitated for a long moment and then sighed. “There’s one of his former guards lives not far from here. Didn’t leave on good terms. He comes in sometimes, and since Lord Carrick doesn’t look after those who no longer work for him, he’s probably poor enough to bribe.”
“He’ll do,” Renard said.
“Seriously though, you should think again about this. This is a dangerous man.”
Renard shrugged. “That’s what makes it fun.”
He said that because Yselle probably wouldn’t understand the real reasons. She wouldn’t get that fun didn’t come into it, only the thought of everything a man like Lord Carrick could get away with, just because he’d been a big enough thug to amass a fortune. Steal a gold piece, and you could have your fingers cut off. Steal a whole chunk of land, and you got to be the one doing the cutting.
If men like Renard didn’t bring lords like this Carrick down to size, who would? If they got to treat those on their lands like dirt with no comeback, what was to stop them from doing it for all time? If they could just kill men and take treasure, how did that make them any better than…
…well, than him? That was always the problem with that kind of philosophizing: sooner or later it showed you head on what kind of man you were. Still, Renard thought, at least there was the gold, and it was an awful, awful lot of gold.
Probably even enough to be worth all the risks.
