Iron and Blood (14 page)

Myreon and Master Tarlyth froze, temporarily stunned, as they saw seven snow-­covered Tyvians wrestling and chasing one another around the plaza. “Don't let 'em get away!” the Sergeant Defender barked, leaping atop the closest Reldamar and putting him in a hammerlock. The rest of the men leapt into action, but hesitantly, not sure who to tackle.

The disguised men kept yelling, “I'm not him! I'm not him!” and Tyvian and Artus yelled the exact same thing, of course. It was sheer pandemonium.

“How the . . .” Myreon gasped, and then started throwing dispels as best she could, but it was dark, she was tired, and her aim was off. She missed the first few. Tarlyth was better, dispelling two of the Shrouds in short order (the two Defenders were in the process of wrestling each other), but it provided all the time Tyvian and Artus needed to slip into an alley and vanish from sight.

By the time Myreon and Tarlyth had everything sorted out, they found themselves alone in the plaza with their ten men—­their prisoners, the sleigh, Carlo diCarlo, and the watch had all melted back into the night. All they had to show for it was a single, empty perfume bottle.

C
arlo picked Artus and Tyvian up a block away and sped off. Artus had managed to snatch back the hurlant while wrestling with a Tyvian Defender. He was giggling uncontrollably. “Hot damn, that was
incredible
!” He slapped his knee.

Tyvian sighed. It was distinctly disconcerting to see “himself” behaving in such a manner. “Carlo, the shackles, if you please.”

“Yes, yes—­not even a thank-­you, though? I mean, look at all the snow you're traipsing into the coach?”

“Sleigh,” Tyvian corrected.

“Whatever. It's not even mine,” Carlo grumbled, producing an enchanted oil and a pair of lock picks and getting to work. “What kind of idiot would bring a coach to Freegate—­you can't even get to half the city. I just hold onto the thing and use it in the wintertime for private conversations that I don't want eavesdropped.”

Tyvian noticed Artus's expression suddenly change; it was as though something had just occurred to him, a storm building just behind his face. Well, behind
Tyvian's
face, but still . . . “What's the matter, Artus?”

“Tell ya in a minute,” the boy said, holding out his shackles.

Carlo nodded. “Ah—­so
you're
Artus and
that's
the real Tyvian. Good. I'll know which one will get my dirty jokes now.”

As soon as Artus's shackles popped off and hit the floor, he snatched up the hurlant and stuffed it in Carlo's face. “Don't move or I blow off your head!”

Carlo put his hands up. “Fine, fine—­I'll tell you all the dirty jokes you want, boy! Gods!”

Tyvian frowned. “Artus, what the hell are you doing?”

“Reldamar!” Artus said, his voice cracking, “I told you already! That's the man that betrayed you, remember? He's the guy in the coach with Jaevis and that other guy—­the young guy.”

Carlo groaned. “This is ridiculous.”

“Tell him! Tell him what you done!” Artus pressed the hurlant harder against Carlo's cheek.

“Boy, that hurlant's broken.” Carlo pointed to the firing mechanism, “It looks like somebody fell on it.”

Tyvian watched his own expression change to doubtful on Artus's shrouded face. “Artus,
did
you fall on that hurlant?”

“I . . . uhhh . . . I had to dive to the ground a ­couple times, if that counts.”

Tyvian grabbed the hurlant and pulled it away. “Yes, that counts.”

Artus folded his arms. “He betrayed you, though—­I wouldn't trust him.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Artus. Carlo has been helping me the whole time.”

“What?” Artus sat up. “How?”

Carlo shrugged. “Well, we haven't been exactly conspiring, but I've been dropping Tyvian plenty of hints. We work together well—­our minds work in a similar way—­and I certainly have no love for that thug Sahand or that louse Hendrieux. I have to say, though, Tyvian, this particular plot has even me lost. What are we doing again?”

Tyvian sighed. “Myreon is going to keep hunting me—­she can't help it. I left her the perfume bottle so she could track us.”

Artus said, “But she doesn't have the seekwand—­I have . . . oh. Right, she took it back.”

Tyvian nodded, smirking. “Even if she didn't, she's with a pile of Defenders and they probably have a spare. Hell, we're in a sleigh in the snow—­they could just follow our tracks. Anyway, with Myreon on our tail, it's an opportune time to pay Hendrieux a little visit.”

“What? Why?” Artus asked, but Carlo was laughing. “What's so funny?”

“I love it, Tyvian. You're using them the same way you used them against that Kalsaari witch—­a wrecking crew. In chasing you, they'll be forced to attack the Dellorans when they find them, which, of course, will be exactly when and where they spot you.”

“Whoa,” Artus breathed. “But we don't know where Hendrieux is.”

Carlo snorted. “Of course I do—­he's in Arble Keep, along with a lot of heavily armed Delloran soldiers. Who do you think is renting the damned place to them?”

Artus blinked. “But . . . if you knew the whole time, why didn't you just tell . . .”

“As much as I appreciate young Tyvian's friendship, my boy, I've no desire to die for him. I wasn't going to tell him because I didn't want to be the one who he found out from. That kind of information could have cost me a lot of very important organs I've come to rely on for breathing and such.”

“Besides,” Tyvian said, “I've known where Hendrieux was, more or less, for a little while now. There are only so many anygates in Freegate, after all, and Hendrieux has always had contacts with the slavers in the Phantom Guild.”

“Shhhh!” Carlo waved his arms

“Carlo,” Tyvian said, grimacing, “I appreciate your fine performance earlier this evening, but I don't think that entitles you to—­”

“I said
shut up
!” Carlo shouted.

Tyvian, taken aback, fell silent, as did everyone else. They listened to the jingle of the horse harnesses through snow-­muted air for a moment before they heard it, faint but not too distant. It was the mournful, slow howl of a great beast. It was Hool.

Tyvian looked at Carlo. “Can you see her with that eye of yours?”

Carlo shuddered. “She's starting early, Tyvian. The Dellorans will have their guard up.”

Tyvian nodded. “More fun for Myreon and her friends, then—­let's go.”

 

H
ad Sergeant Tillick Nord of the Delloran army been in charge, he would have burned the stupid tower to the ground rather than wait for whatever was in there to come out. Of course, Nord was not in charge, and “Captain” Hendrieux had told them they needed to keep a low profile. So, that meant that Nord and a dozen of his men had to crouch behind the frigid, wind-­worn battlements on the top of this godforsaken fortress, crossbows loaded and cocked, and hope the gnoll or whatever was in the tower would be dumb enough to come out the door they had their weapons trained on. He was too much of a Delloran to admit he was freezing, and too much a professional to complain openly about anything, but he could still taste the pipe smoke on his lips and the warm ale in his belly, and he hoped to all the gods that this ridiculous gnoll-­thing would show itself quick so he and his men could feather it and go back inside to party.

Nord passed a pouch down the line after picking out some of the dried leaves inside—­wakeroot, the soldier's best friend, guaranteed to sober a man up in a minute or less. “Everybody takes a chew. You can get yerself nice and drunk again once this is over.” Nord stuffed the wad of pungent black leaves in his mouth and held it in one cheek, the fiery juices bubbling on his tongue and tickling as they ran down his throat. When it hit his stomach, it was like somebody had lit a firebomb in his innards. Nord's eyes watered as the world was brought into stark focus at the same time as a raging headache assaulted his temples. Wakeroot got rid of the drunk by, essentially, skipping straight to the hangover. Still, he found he could see straighter, once he squinted past the pain behind his eyes. Down the line, men were coughing and groaning as their own hangovers hit them. Nord cursed Hendrieux under his breath; they were in for an unpleasant evening.

Just
how
unpleasant, however, wasn't made clear until a few minutes later. Such clarification came in the form of a pack of angry ­people gathering outside the stockade gate. This struck Nord as odd simply because nobody ever used the gate—­all transport was conducted through the anygate in the fortress's dungeon—­and that, as far as the outside world was concerned, this particular ruin was nothing but a run-­down brothel and ink den. Nord walked over to the side of the battlements that faced the gate, which was opposite from the side facing the storage tower, and kept an eye on things, just in case. He couldn't see who was out there, thanks to the height of the walls, but he guessed it was some kind of bizarre domestic disturbance . . . in the middle of the night . . . in the winter. Right.

A magically amplified voice thundered over the walls.
“Attention, occupants of the Arble Keep; you are harboring a fugitive and are hereby commanded to open your gates by the authority of the Defenders of the Balance. You have two minutes to comply.”

“Damn,” Nord hissed, and began issuing orders. “Matcher, report to Hendrieux and Gallo, ask them to advise. Keeler, Verins—­you two stay on the tower. Everybody else form up here. We're gonna have visitors in a minute, and I want 'em welcomed. Go!”

The men instantly set to their tasks, and Nord had nine crossbows set up to rain quarrels on anybody coming through the gate just before it blew inward with a white flash. A pair of Defenders were the first through, crouching by the edges of the wall and pointing their firepikes up toward the battlements to cover the rest of their party. They sent a few white-­hot blasts of enchanted fire up toward Nord's men, but they had cover, and firepikes were notoriously inaccurate weapons anyway.

“Take'em down—­aim for any part of 'em not glitterin'!” Nord barked, and two crossbows clacked, sending a bolt through one Defender's thigh and one through the other's hip. Nord grinned—­fancy magecraft was nice, but good shots were better.

An instant later a full squadron of Defenders, armored and angry, were storming through the gate. The first four were taken down by Nord's men, but the next few shots were deflected by the mage they had with them, who threw various guards and wards over the Defenders' heads as they made their way toward the keep's entrance. Firepike bolts hissing and spitting past his position, Nord stayed calm, noting that the mage seemed to have forgotten to ward herself and
wasn't
wearing the standard mageglass breastplate or helm.

Spitting to test the wind, Nord raised his own crossbow to his shoulder and took aim at the wizard's bright yellow hair. “Say good-­bye, girlie.”

“Good-­bye, girlie.” A deep, rumbling voice said from behind him.

His hair suddenly standing on end, Nord twisted to look over his shoulder. In the dim evening light all he could see was a huge, hairy bulk and a set of gleaming white fangs protruding from a bloody maw. “What . . . the . . .”

“Keeler and Verins missed me,” the gnoll growled.

These were the last words Nord ever heard.

B
efore the Defenders arrived, Tyvian, with Carlo's help, had mimicked a set of tracks in the snow indicating that they had gone inside Arble Keep, leaving Carlo's sleigh and horses tended by his coachman beside an empty water trough. Carlo produced a warding taper of bloodred wax and lit it, the magic in the candle shielding them from magical detection for a brief time as they waited in the coach.

Predictably, Myreon and the Defenders were so incensed by his recent escape they didn't take the time to investigate further than seeing the tracks and questioning the coachman, who quietly indicated the massive, walled-­in ink-­den as the fugitives' current location. The siege of the place followed no more than a few seconds later.

Tyvian noted that Tarlyth wasn't present. He wondered why the Master Defender would have come all this way—­it was definitely not standard operating procedure, and, as much as Tyvian liked to flatter himself as being at the top of the Defenders' most wanted list, there was simply no reason a man of that stature would leave his warm office in Galaspin and come here, a city where he was expressly forbidden to enter by international law.

Unless it was something he needed to do personally because he couldn't afford his colleagues back at the Tower knowing about. Because it was illegal. And had something to do with Tyvian himself. And Sahand. And maybe even Theliara. And involved him meeting with or otherwise knowing Carlo.

Tyvian sat in the coach, eyes wide, as giant puzzle pieces thudded into place in his brain. “Gods . . .”

“C'mon!” Artus said, jumping out of the coach once the last of the Defenders was through the door. “What're we waiting for?”

Snapping himself out of his revelation, Tyvian snagged Artus by the collar before he had gone too far. “Not so fast now.”

The boy stopped in his tracks, blinking at the smuggler and the old pirate. “C'mon! We're going to get them, right? The Dellorans, Hendrieux, the Defenders—­everybody!”

“Not we,
I
. You, my young friend, have better things to do than be gutted by a Delloran soldier during some delusion of grandeur.”

Carlo produced a few items from a sleeve and passed them through the coach window. “Your effects, Tyvian. Is there something wrong with your hand?”

Tyvian looked down to see his ring hand contorted in pain. Apparently he was getting used to its bite, or perhaps his good deed of stopping Artus was mitigating the bad deed of allowing Myreon and company to run into what was probably some kind of cross fire. “It's nothing. I didn't escape the Hanim entirely unscathed, is all.”

Carlo grinned. “Why don't I believe you?”

“Because you are a mistrustful, miserable old man, that's why,” Tyvian countered, taking
Chance,
the throwing knives, and the illumite shard Carlo was offering and stuffing them into the appropriate pockets.

Artus's voice broke into a whine. “Why can't I go? I can fight!”

Tyvian shook his head. “No, you can't. You only think you can—­there is a major difference. The men in there are trained soldiers in armor with swords. This is no amateur back-­alley knife fight in Ayventry. This is for your own good.”

“Since when do you care what happens to me?” Artus countered.

Tyvian scowled. “Are all children at your age so petulant? I care what happens to you because I have a use for you, stupid. I need you to use those sprightly legs of yours to run around back and keep an eye out.”

Artus blinked. “Why?”

Carlo cuffed Artus on the back of the head. “In case Hendrieux tries to slip out the back! Gods, Tyvian—­is he always this dense?”

Tyvian thought back to the Hanim's palace, no more than a half hour ago, and smiled. “No, Carlo, I daresay the boy is sometimes quite clever.”

Artus's face split into a huge smile. “Really?”

“Why are you still here? Run, Artus, RUN!” Tyvian clapped, and Artus took to his heels.

“He won't get past me!” he said as he sprinted out of sight. “You'll see!”

Carlo watched him go. “Never thought I'd see the day.”

Tyvian groaned inwardly. “Dare I ask?”

“He reminds me of you, when you were that age. He's taller, though.”

Tyvian scowled. “I won't dignify that with a response. Good-­bye, Carlo. I'd lay low until the day after tomorrow, at the earliest. Plausible deniability and all that.”

Carlo clasped Tyvian's hand in a warm, firm handshake. “If I were you, as soon as I left here I would lay low for the next decade. You're making a lot of enemies tonight, you know.”

An explosion shook the fortress wall, and the two men immediately separated. “That's Myreon breeching the main keep—­my cue. I've got a revenge to secure, Carlo.”

“Good-­bye, Tyvian. Look me up sometime when we aren't both embroiled in some kind of international espionage.” And with that, Carlo clapped his hands and the coachman leapt to his place. With a crack of a whip and a jingle of sleigh bells, the Verisi pirate and his borrowed sleigh vanished from sight.

Tyvian shook the cramps out of his ring hand, drew out and activated
Chance,
and darted through the open gate. Stepping over the injured bodies of the Defenders, he crossed the courtyard, climbed the narrow stair, and ducked inside Arble Keep.
Tonight
, he told himself,
Hendrieux runs out of places to hide.

H
ool hoisted a screaming Delloran over her head and threw him down the narrow spiral stairs into his fellows. They collapsed under his weight, rolling down into a heap of arms, armor, and weapons. Hool took up the battle-­axe of the man she just threw and hacked the three Delloran soldiers apart as they struggled to rise. When they stopped moving, she moved on.

At the foot of the stairs the door stood open. She sniffed the air beyond—­there were two men, one behind the door and the other a bit farther in. He probably had a crossbow. Fishing a shield from the heap of slaughtered men, Hool held it out with her left hand and went in, kicking the door so it slammed into the man behind it hard enough to stun him for a moment. The man with the crossbow fired from behind an overturned table, hitting the shield. Hool dropped it and covered the distance between herself and the table in one bound, splitting it and the man behind it in two with a titanic, two-­handed swing of the axe. She swung so hard that it embedded itself deep in the floor, so she left it to face the other man, who had recovered from the door slam.

This one had a sword and shield and was circling her cautiously. Hool roared at him, causing him to back away, but she was unarmed, so he quickly advanced again. Hool decided to hold still and wait for him to do something stupid. She didn't have to wait long. The man advanced to striking distance with his sword, assuming his reach exceeded her own, and made a conservative overhand cut with his blade. What he failed to realize was that while she couldn't reach his body from that distance, she
could
reach his hand. Darting past his swing, she seized him by the wrist and yanked him close, bringing her knee into his groin. After that, as he wheezing with pain beneath her, and with his one weapon in her control, killing him was easier than breathing.

There was another explosion; Hool knew that the other attackers of this place were now inside. She also knew Myreon was with them, which meant Reldamar would be nearby. He wasn't as stupid as the wizard, though, so Hool knew he would probably be sneaking in rather than just running around and blowing things up. He would be hunting Hendrieux, just like she was. She had to hurry if she wanted to catch Hendrieux first.

The room she was in now had several exits. Like most buildings she had encountered, everything was needlessly confused by doors and stairs and corridors. Gnoll yurts had one room, as that was all you needed. This place was like a rodent's warren—­Hendrieux could be holed up just about anywhere. Reldamar probably already knew where Hendrieux was hiding and was headed directly there. But where?

Hool opened up all the doors in the room, letting the air from the adjoining corridors and rooms flow inside. She breathed deeply, hunting for a scent. In the open air, when she was downwind, she could pick up the trail of a particular person from miles away. Here, however, her sensitive nose was assaulted with the pungent odors of fire, blood, and magic, making a trail almost impossible to pick up without spending a lot of time she didn't have. She needed some kind of marker—­something to follow that was distinctive enough to be found through the scent-­filled air and that would be found with Hendrieux.

Then she smelled it—­the smell of the magic door Hendrieux had used all those times to escape her. Even at this distance the metallic, cold smell burned her nose. It was stronger this time, so Hool knew this door was very important. Hendrieux would be close to it. Yanking her axe free from the floor, she rushed out of the room to track them down.