Swords, Sorcery, & Self-Rescuing Damsels Page 5

“I think it’s connected. This murderer’s trying to find you. Think about it—all women with dark hair, mostly fighters, and all with their throat slit. Until I saw you outside the Guild today, I hadn’t made the connection.”

  I swore under my breath. How many others were making the same connection? To him, I asked, “How do I know ya aren’t the killer yourself?”

  “You don’t. Folks figure it’s a merc though. The killer seems to know where we gather, how we move, and the weapons we use.” He traced circles across the tabletop with his finger as he spoke. “Details like someone’s been studying mercs for a while now. But if I was the killer, I’d have just killed you rather than meet with you.”

  A little laugh escaped me, and he smiled—a grin made more earnest by the way his bushy, red beard danced. Something about it felt familiar, though I couldn’t place it. “Have we met before?” I asked.

  “I’d have remembered the honor of meeting the great Lady Ida. It’s not something I’d forget.”

  I flushed, though whether it’d been a compliment or insult, I couldn’t tell. The tavern door opened to allow entrance to a disheveled man in a black cloak. A few called out greetings as he folded his tall frame into a chair at the bar’s end. His hood shadowed all but a scruffy beard and lips that trembled.

  “That’s Marc Silversmith,” the merc said, and I glanced at the bar a second time.

  Last time I’d seen Marc, he’d been one of the wealthiest caravan guards this side of the mountains. He carried the right bumps and lumps to be well armed, but the way he’d moved through the door was like a man with one foot in this world and one foot into the next.

  “Now he’s the man you want to chat with.”

  “And why’s that?” I asked.

  “The first victim was his sister.”

  ~*~

  By the time I’d fetched another cup of ale, my informant had fled, leaving me alone with a stomach full of squirming vipers and the need of a few more cups to settle ‘em. Rather than wallow in my fear, I elbowed the juggler out of his seat beside Marc Silversmith. It hadn’t been all that hard considering the mixed scent of sour ale and sweat coming off my old friend. I breathed through my mouth and said, “It’s been a long time, Marc.”

  At first, he didn’t move—he kept his gaze on the bit of ale that ran down the side of his cup—but the moment I swiveled toward him, Marc fumbled for the bulge at his hip. My hand reached his dirk first, which I pressed deeper into its scabbard.

  “Easy,” I whispered into his ear. “It’s Ida. Remember me?”

  His brows furrowed as he blinked, and like someone clearing away sleep, his gaze focused on my face. “Lady Ida?” His hand went limp against mine. “You can le-go. Surprised me is all.”

  I released his dirk and waited another heartbeat before sliding into my seat. “I’m sorry about your sister, Dorine,” I said.

  “Yeah, ain’t everyone.”

  “Can I ask ya about...what happened?” When he reached for his cup, I slid it out of reach. “You’ve had enough, friend. Answer a few questions for me, and I’ll let ya get back to it.”

  “Always were a royal pain,” he said with a sad little smile. “Don’t know what good it’ll do, but ask away.”

  “Where was she before the attack?”

  Marc swung his arm wide. “Here. Where she always is...was. Working the bar.”

  “Were ya here?” Those soft, brown ovals hardened at the question, and I asked, “Did she leave with anyone? Say anythin’ off or unusual?”

  “No. Wish she had.”

  “Was she friends with any mercs in town?”

  “All of them. Since you left, all she ever wanted was to be was a merc like you. Even after...”

  I winced, and when I pushed the cup back at Marc, he drank like a man trapped in the swirling sands of Sadai. I set a few coins on the bar before leaving him to it. What little conversation there was lulled as I passed.

  Loughrie wasn’t the merc’s town I remembered. Not anymore.

  ~*~

  The pounding on my door lasted a good few minutes after I’d opened my eyes and another two minutes past my shout to go away.

  “Please, there’s been another death,” the innkeeper shouted.

  Red-beard had me spooked, and I’d been all set to leave Loughrie in the past where it belonged, but another dead woman? I dragged myself out of the sad excuse for a bed with a sigh.

  “Be down in a moment,” I said before pulling on a linen shirt and breeches. I stuffed my feet into my boots, buckled myself into my leather armor, and was down the tavern stairs at a pace that left my old joints complaining. A man wearing the King’s Army uniform chatted with the inn keep, the latter of which shoved a cup of ale and small plate of food in my direction. “I hear we have another body?” I asked and bit off a chunk of cheese.

  “Lieutenant Colby,” the man in blue said as he nodded at me. “Word is I’m supposed to report...to you?”

  So this was the Lieutenant who’d sent word to the King. “Thanks for the reports on the victims. They were quite helpful.” As helpful as too much ale the night before.

  “I was expecting someone—”

  I slid the coin from my pouch and held it up to stop him talking. If he’d finished that sentence, I might’ve had to kill him. Etched into the coin was a silver star marking me as sepier. When he opened his mouth, I shook my head to silence him.

  “Um, yes, if you’ll follow me,” he said.

  At least this fool knew who and what I was. I trailed along as he led me out of the inn and towards a lean-to held together by little more than luck and a prayer. Inside, a soldier with a lantern stood guard over a body. When the lantern light reflected off his face, I closed my eyes. Marc’s disheveled black cloak was gathered around him like a shroud, but his throat wasn’t slit. The place reeked of sour wine, and a quick glance about left me wondering about the last time he’d been home as dust gathered on everything. “When was he found?” I asked.

  “Landlord was around this morning to collect rent. Found him passed out. Thought him drunk until he turned him over. You think it’s related to the others?” the lieutenant asked.

  I ignored him as I searched Marc’s pockets. His registration with the Guild was wadded up in his pant’s pocket along with a lock of hair. Probably his sister’s. I set both aside and checked the pouch at his waist. A few coins but nothing else. I nudged his head with my boot. “Bring the lantern here,” I said as I leaned closer. Something discolored his jaw near the ear, and I grabbed the throwing knife from the top of my boot.

  “What are you doing?” the lieutenant hissed, and I brushed aside his outstretched hand.

  “There’s somethin’ on his jaw.” I held his beard hair taut and gently pulled the knife-edge across the hairs, cutting ‘em a bit to get a better look at his skin. My insides shook as the hair fell away.

  It wasn’t the Amaskan tattoo I’d been dreading, but it was an intentional mark all the same. Someone had scratched three slanted lines into his skin.

  “Looks like he scratched himse—”

  My glare silenced the lieutenant. “The marks are evenly spaced and even in length. No one scratches themselves that cleanly. It’s recent, too.”

  “Then what’s it mean?”

  I shook my head. No need to tell him. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop what was coming or what was already here. Only an Amaskan would use that symbol. Marc had been spotted talking to me, and they’d silenced him—marked him an oath-breaker. He wasn’t one, but it was a symbol I’d recognize. One meant to silence me.

  The red-bearded merc had been right. The Amaskans were here, and from the looks of it, they were looking for me. My hands trembled as I returned my knife to its sheath.

  “Burn the body immediately. Tell anyone who asks that Marc drank himself to death.”

  The lieutenant saluted me as I left the lean-to, my steps a lot less sure than they’d been before. It’d been twenty-five years since my brother’d
left me for dead. Why would Bredych choose now to hunt for a dead woman?

  I rubbed my jaw. The puffy scar marred it, but if I pressed against it, the tattoo was still there under the scar tissue. Like a curse.

  A light drizzle left the morning chilly and gray as I set out for the Merc’s Guild. Somewhere in this town was a red-bearded man who’d asked all the right questions. Maybe he knew more than he was letting on. Either way, I needed to find him before anyone else died.

  Or before he did.

  ~*~

  Several hours and a parched throat later, the red-bearded merc was nowhere to be found, though I’d had several folks tell me he’d last been seen at the tavern in the company of some lady merc. As afternoon rolled in with a storm, I settled into the tavern’s back corner with a glass of wine and a hearty meal, though I only picked at it. Once done torturing myself with the idea of food, I tossed up my cloak’s hood and retreated to the shadows.

  When he walked into the tavern, the merc who I’d since dubbed Red-Beard glanced around at the dozen occupants before settling at the bar. Every time the door opened, his fingers squeezed his mug, but he otherwise kept his gaze straight ahead. A candlemark passed before he gave up waiting for me, assuming that was his goal, and left. I followed a few heartbeats behind and winced when I opened the door to the downpour.

  The rain would disguise the sound of my footfalls, but it’d be harder to track him in all the shadows, which he hugged like a mistress. I used an empty wagon to reach the tavern’s roof and ignored the groan in my right hip as the old injury reminded me how young I wasn’t. Jumpy as Red-Beard was, I needed every advantage, and lucky for me, the buildings in Loughrie lay close together.

  He was good, but not that good. Which meant he couldn’t be Amaskan. Or if he was, he’d have to be new. Like the rest of Loughrie, he’d underestimated me, and I grinned as I followed along from the rooftops. While he meandered in the rain for a few minutes, he eventually circled around to the road leading out of town. I used the shutters on a house to climb down, careful of where I placed my feet when I landed. A light flickered in a barn up ahead as the door opened, and he stepped inside.

  I spent the next few minutes dodging puddles as I prayed to the Thirteen that the storm would hide my approach. The barn was a smart choice—no real windows and two doors, three if ya counted the hay door in the rafters. My hip ached as I peered up at the hay door. It was reachable...with some inventive maneuvering I’d pay for in the morning.

  Thunder rolled overhead, and I used the opportunity to walk around the barn’s side. The wood siding was too slick to scale in the rain, but luck was with me. In the rear, a ladder leaned against the barn. Perfect.

  A moment later, I’d climbed in through the open hay door and sat dripping in the rafters. Below me, three voices, including Red-Beard, murmured, and I crept forward ‘til I’d reached the railing. Two of the men sprawled across hay stacks while Red-Beard approached. “She wasn’t there,” he said.

  “Do you think she’s on to you?”

  The man who asked this slid forward off the hay, giving me a good look at his clothing. Black from head-to-toe, the fabric was fitted at the joints and waist, yet stretchable elsewhere. Cloth shoes covered his feet and when his hood fell back, his bald head shined in the lantern light.

  Amaskan.

  I didn’t need the tattoo to confirm it, though I caught sight of the circle on his clean jaw when he turned his head my way. I held my breath, but the darkness hid me.

  The face was older, the lines and wrinkles deeper, but it was the scar across his nose that confirmed it. The man pacing before Red-Beard was none other than Ilan, my brother’s second-in-command. He’d been like a brother to me growing up in the Order of Amaska, and bile burned the back of my throat.

  Watching him, the urge to flee was overwhelming. It’d be what he’d expect too. Always playing it safe—that was how he probably remembered me.

  Red-Beard flinched as Ilan leaned close and whispered something in his ear. Red-Beard nodded, then left the barn. Fleeing was exactly my plan, but Ilan chose that moment to look up into the rafters. Behind me, the open hay-door swung in the wind and tapped against the siding.

  “Got to close that door. Storm’s getting worse,” he said to the other guy, who shrugged in response.

  I crept back as slowly as I dared and didn’t turn around ’til my feet touched the ground outside. Long after I’d dried off in the warmth of the tavern, my body shivered and my skin crawled. I could’ve sworn his eyes still watched me. I took a long swallow of ale and waited for Red-Beard’s return.

  ~*~

  Desperation usually drove people to stupidity, but also to the familiar, and Red-Beard was no exception. Not long after I’d nursed my third glass of wine, he stumbled into the tavern, his cheeks flushed and his beard a dripping mess. When he spotted me, he grinned and made straight for my corner. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, and I nodded to the empty chair in front of me.

  “We seem to have spent most the day looking for each other then.”

  He frowned at this. “Seems odd we couldn’t find one another in a town this small, but we’ve found each other now. I have a proposal for you.”

  “Indeed? A job?”

  “I...I know you’ve been looking into the murders, but I could see it in your eyes last time we talked.”

  “And what did ya see?”

  “Fear. When I mentioned the Amaskans, you froze. Maybe you need a good job to forget the past. My employer’s looking for those who’re good at talking to people. He’s looking to set up his business here in Loughrie, but the townsfolk might not be keen on the competition.”

  “What’s he do? Your employer?” I asked.

  Red-Beard pointed at my glass. “In Sadai he runs a very successful vineyard, but he’s looking to expand here as the weather’s more hospitable to growing grapes.”

  I took a sip of wine to cover my laughter. The Amaskans used both horses and wine to fund the Order. Whether he knew it or not, he’d tipped his hand with that story.

  “If I decide to take your employer up on this offer, what’d I be doin’? Guardin’ the wine?”

  “Some, though mostly just making sure the good people of Loughrie let him make his wine in peace. Maybe some negotiating with the locals.”

  The tavern door opened and Red-Beard’s friend, a tall man whose name I hadn’t deciphered, walked in. His hood covered his bald head, but it didn’t matter. From the way he slid through the space to his awareness of everyone in the room, his very movement screamed Amaskan. He tucked himself into a table alone, but his eyes flickered once in our direction.

  “I’m interested, though I need to let the Guild know I’ve found work.” While Red-Beard pretended to think it over, I studied his face. Only a few inches long, the red, wet locks of his beard curled around his face, almost hiding the tattoo on his jaw below his ear. Dry, the beard had covered the tattoo completely, but now, the barest hint of a circle was there if I stared hard enough. When he nodded agreement, I said, “I can meet your employer in the mornin’. Does he already have a spot in mind, or would ya like to meet here? Usual table?”

  “You know the old barn at the edge of town? Has a big tree out front?”

  “Used to be a sheep farm, right?”

  Red-Beard nodded. “Now it’s a vineyard. Or it will be come this time next year. Locals aren’t too pleased with him for buying the land, so that’s where you come in. We can meet there around noon.”

  “Noon sounds fine. Say, never did catch your name. I figure if we’re goin’ to be workin’ together, I might want to call ya somethin’ other than ‘Red-Beard.’”

  He laughed and held out his arm, which I grasped by the forearm and shook. “The name’s Morei,” he said.

  “Nice to meet ya, Morei. I’ll be seein’ ya tomorrow then.” Or sooner if all goes well.

  I stood up first and left the tavern knowing full well that both Amaskans watched me. Once outside, the
downpour continued, and I sighed as I rounded the corner to the alley. I grabbed a few rocks, which I tucked into my pouch, then grabbed a handful of mud. I smeared the thick stuff across my face ’til it was mostly covered. Hopefully between the darkness and mud, I’d blend into the shadows. I climbed into an empty wagon, unsheathed my sword, and removed my cloak, tossing the latter over me like a tarpaulin.

  It didn’t take five minutes for someone to exit the tavern, and Morei stopped a few feet in front of my hiding spot. He glanced about, and seeing nothing in the dim light, swore. I took one of the stones from my pouch and tossed it down the alleyway, a good twenty feet away.

  Morei peered into the alley as thunder rattled the buildings around us. I tossed a second stone, which bounced off a stone wall before landing in a puddle, and he stepped into the alley. I held my breath as he passed by the wagon but almost laughed aloud when a rat scurried in front of him and he flinched.

  Stepping from the wagon would’ve made all sorts of sounds but the Thirteen must’ve been on my side as a bolt of lightning hit a nearby tree and set the air a-buzz. The reverberating thunder covered most of the noise. Morei spun on his heel and turned into my blade as I drove it into his gut.

  “It is you,” he muttered as he stumbled back, hand clutching his innards.

  “Ya couldn’t let the past stay buried anymore than my brother could. I’m sorry, Red-Beard, but ya left me no choice. I wanted to run—probably should’ve—but I can’t let ‘em die for me. I’m sworn to protect these people, which I can’t do if I’m dead.”

  Morei dropped to his knees and held out his hand. Clutched in his fingers was a silver ring. “B-belonged to Marc’s sis-sister,” he said. I took it from him, and he smiled. “Sorry, Lady Ida.”

  Damn him. I hadn’t wanted to kill him. Why couldn’t he have left it alone? Why join the Amaskans?

  He exposed his throat. “Make it q-quick.”

  Before my blade moved, another blade sliced through his flesh from behind, nearly taking his head clean off. “Don’t be sorry. Be Amaskan,” the man muttered as he continued his forward momentum until I stood face-to-face with the third, unnamed Amaskan from the barn. He grinned and as lightning struck, he was on me, moving faster than I thought possible in the muddy mess. I brought my sword up in time to parry, but my feet slid backward in the mud. I fell to one knee, and his next blow knocked my sword from my muddy hands.