The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 11
“He says he left a gift for me.” She looked up. “Did you find anything with the letter?”
“A chest,” Hasham said. “The letter was lying atop it in the wreckage of the boy’s pavilion. I had it checked, for obvious reasons. There was a concern it might contain something harmful. I had to be sure.”
“And did it?”
“That would depend on your point of view. It contained godsteel, Saska. My men were unable to move it, of course, so I had the Surgeon summoned to help. He and some of his men. They hauled it up to your chambers.”
Saska was already stepping back toward the flaps. “Then I’ll not take up any of your time, Lord Hasham.”
“Is Sir Ralston out there?” the moonlord asked.
She paused in motion. “He is.”
“I’ll have his report, then. Send him in, if you would.”
Saska nodded, turned, and slipped out past the guards into the maelstrom of noise. It was curious how much quieter it had seemed inside that tent with only canvas walls to shield them. The Wall was taking report from the Strong Eagle, hearing of his latest operations in the city. When he saw her emerge he absented himself and stamped over, spotting the note in her grasp. “I am told there was a letter.”
She waved it. “There was.”
“Is it of any consequence?”
To me, yes. She folded it, stashing it in a pocket to join her other treasures; the list of jokes from Bawdry Bronn, the quill-knife Lancel had given her, the shell necklace from little Billy Bowen and the pitted piece of coral that had called to her, once, during that lazy day on the reef. All little mementoes of her time and travels, of the people who had shaped her path. “Not especially,” she said. “It’s from Prince Robbert. It came with a gift.”
The Wall seemed to know that already. “A chest of godsteel, I’m told.”
Gifts were meant to be surprises, so far as Saska knew. She gave a sigh. “Does the Strong Eagle have anything to say?”
“Nothing that will make you smile.”
Little does these days, she might have said. But that was too morose. “Lord Hasham wants to see you. I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.”
She left him, drifting through the sea of soldiers toward the grand central stair, beginning her ascent. The palace was three-tiered, towering, with many smaller levels on each, accessed by switchback stairs of stone that seemed, sometimes, to go on forever. She passed eagles along the way. Eagles in stone and eagles in iron and eagles stitched into tapestries and drapes. They perched upon the walls, clutching torches in their talons, or looming in some cold dark corner, staring out with piercing eyes. Leshie had given some of them names, though Saska never remembered which was which. They were always silly too. Beak-Face and Angry-Eyes and Feathers, things like that.
A third of the way up, she heard the tread of footsteps coming down. A bustle of bodies that told of a group three of four strong. She rounded a corner and saw them, moving between a patch of shadow between two torches. Then the face of the Surgeon appeared, as stony and inexpressive as the eagles on the walls.
“Serenity.” He gave a bow. “We have delivered the chest to your chambers.” His eyes had a soulless quality to them, those eyes that never seemed to blink. It was an affected thing, Saska suspected, a learned habit, part of his persona. The Surgeon was all about precision, and calm. Ruthless, calculating, a man of modest physical stature, but intimidating in manner and mood.
Saska could understand how this man might unnerve another, but not her. She’d seen much worse than him. “My thanks.”
“There’s good godsteel in there,” he said. “You’ll forgive me for having a look.”
Stop ruining the surprise. “I would imagine a prince has access to a wealth of good godsteel, Captain.”
A small smile and dip of the chin. He was clean-shaven, lightly tanned, with plain, forgettable features. “Yes. I would imagine the same.”
The captain had with him three others. Two men, and a woman. The men were large, the woman larger. Saska craned her neck to look at her. “We haven’t had the pleasure, as yet.”
A hiss slipped through the woman’s lips.
“The Tigress does not speak, Serenity,” the Surgeon explained. “At least, not until she is comfortable with a person. But I know her hisses, and that one was very polite. She is not unfamiliar with courtesy.”
“Courtesy I will take or leave. It’s strong swords and loyalty I’m after.”
“I have heard. There is a rumour that you are leaving Aram, and require an escort.” He presented his men. “Let me introduce Gutter and Gore. Two of my finest implements. They look rather alike, do they not?”
“Brothers?” Saska asked.
“Cousins. But their fathers were twins to one another, and their mothers looked rather the same as well. Gutter. Gore. We bow when we meet our betters.”
“Cap’n.” The two men spoke in unison, dull-voiced, and bowed in time as well. They were greatly more alike than the Butcher and the Baker, that was certain, a pair of broad-shouldered men of similar stature with long, flaxen hair tumbling to their necks, one with a light wave only, the other more thickly curled. They had square chins, flat cheeks, narrow noses, piercing eyes. Handsome, Saska thought, taking a good long look at them. One of them had mismatched eyes, she saw. The left purple, the right clear blue. The other’s were a striking hue of hazel, almost gold.
She had a question for them. “I have to ask…why Gutter and Gore?”
One pointed at the other. “He guts, I gore.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand, glanced at the Surgeon as though for guidance, then bowed again. “My lady.”
Fine implements, Saska thought. But not the sharpest. “Does every sellsword have a name?”
“Only those that earn them,” said the Surgeon. “When you gut or gore a score of men, the name does tend to stick.”
“And the Tigress?” Saska looked up. The woman must have been over six and a half feet tall, taller even than Lady Marian had been. And beautiful as well. Feline ochre eyes, straight black shimmering hair, skin the colour of honey. Is that one of the Surgeon’s requirements? Must all his killers be comely? “I’ve heard you suffered the lash, once before,” Saska said, addressing her directly. She perused her garb, a mix of godsteel chainmail and plate, with a cloak of black and orange vair flowing from her shoulders. Beneath it, her flesh was scourged, Saska had been told. The flaying had left her horribly disfigured across the breasts and back, savage stripes that won her her name, a beauty from the neck up only.
The woman hissed.
“That means ‘yes’,” translated the Surgeon. “One day, she may show you. Only few have ever seen them.”
He was one of them, she did not doubt. Perhaps he even stitched her up? “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” Saska thumbed over her shoulder. “I’ve been whipped as well, Tigress. I’m a striped woman, same as you.”
A smile, this time. And a nod.
“She likes you,” the Surgeon observed, in that mechanical way of his. “I think Gutter and Gore do as well, though perhaps for a different reason. Eyes down,” he said to them, suddenly fierce, snapping the words out. They obeyed at once, eyes to their toes. “Discipline is important in my ranks, Serenity. I am sorry if they were staring.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it. Though I suggest they be careful when Sir Ralston is around. He is very protective of me.”
“They mean no harm. But yes, I will make sure of that. I daresay Sir Ralston could gut and gore these two without so much as breaking a sweat.” He put a hand on the Tigress’s arm. Bands in black and orange were wrapped around the steel of her vambraces. “She would give him a better fight, I think. I am proud of her, perhaps you can tell. She is the greatest of all the Bloody Traders. Perhaps the most deadly sellsword in all the world.”
“A bold claim. The Butcher might disagree with you.” Along with a hundred others.
“Every sellsword worth his salt would disagree with me. We are a swaggering sort, a race of braggarts and boasters, with very thin skin when our competence is called into question. Now a man like Sir Ralston…he does not need to boast. He knows, in his bones, that there are few knights in this world who could conquer him, if any.” That hand on the Tigress’s arm again, the little proud smile to go with it. “She is the same among sellswords. A marvel of the Unseen Isles, who has slain five hundred men.”
Saska had heard that one too. That and the blood. There were whispers going around that the Tigress liked to drink the blood of her victims, Bladeborn blood in particular, to keep herself young. That she had mage blood in her veins. Saska suspected that was just another tall tale, but if true, she cared not. She’s just the sort of woman I need. A killer, born and bred.
“Will you come with me?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the Surgeon.
She blinked. “Oh. I hadn’t thought…”
“It would be so easy?”
“Well…yes. You’re known as a man of careful thought. I would have imagined you’d want to consider it for a while. You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“Vandar.”
Another blink. A strong pump of the heart. “How…?”
“Ears in the walls, Serenity. Roaches in the rushes. Things are said. Things are heard. They reach my ears and I profit.”
“Profit?” Saska felt suddenly exposed, on edge. Just one word and she was squinting at the man in doubt. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Captain?”
“No. I am trying to help you. I have been helping you already, in fact. Do not think me unversed in the horror that awaits us, or uncaring of the plight of this world. I know how important you are. And I am here to swear you my sword.”
She looked at him, narrow-eyed. “If this is some trick…”
“No trick. Just good sense. I know who you are, who your grandfather was, and I know a little of prophecy too. Without you, all may be lost. I speak of profit, yes. There is great profit to be had in protecting you.”
She still wasn’t sure. Another squinting glare. Though really, that made no sense. Only moments ago she was asking him to join her, and not so long before that she was telling Rolly that anyone who joined her company deserved to know the truth. That he had somehow unearthed it first shouldn’t matter. But it did, somehow. She felt less in control.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, after a pause. “You’ve just…you’ve taken me off-guard a bit. If the secret gets out…”
“Your enemies will come.”
“Yes.” And one in particular.
“It has,” the Surgeon said.
Saska stiffened, peering at him. His eyes gave nothing away. “You mean…” She chose her words carefully, glancing at the Tigress, at Gutter and Gore, though their eyes were still inspecting their toes and would likely stay there until commanded otherwise. “Others who know…who I am?”
“There are. There were. But fear not, the Surgeon has cut these cancers free and removed the tainted flesh. They will not trouble you anymore.”
She swallowed. “You’ve…been killing for me?”
He stared, cold-eyed. “I have killed, cut off tongues, fingers, hands, threatened the lives of loved ones. All for you. To shield your true identity. When a secret slips out it becomes a plague. It spreads, like the bloody flux beyond the walls. And soon everyone has it. Soon everyone knows. I have been working to contain the spread.”
She knew nothing of this. “By whose authority?”
“Need,” the Surgeon said. “By the authority of necessity.” He fingered a long flaying knife at his belt, nestled beside a plain-looking broadsword and nine-inch godsteel dagger, curved and cruel. He had some smaller blades as well, surgical instruments, scalpels of various shape and size fixed to a leather belt worn diagonally across his chest. “Rest assured. Only men of ill design have been blooded over this. The flow has been staunched, for now.”
Saska was beginning to understand why people feared this man. Pete Brown, she thought. That’s his true name. A plain name for a plain-looking man, but behind those eyes…
She gave a firm nod, swallowing again. Once upon a time she might have condemned him for this, but not now. The authority of necessity, she thought. He isn’t wrong.
“How many of your own people know?”
“Few. Only those I trust. These will be the men I bring with me, when we go.”
“And all this from the kindness of your heart?” She continued to peer at him, trying to get a better read. “Or are you hoping to reap some reward, Captain, from all this fine work you’ve been doing?”
“My only reward will be to accompany you on your quest. And if it should succeed…then perhaps we can talk.”
She gave a snort of laughter. Sellswords. They’re all the same. It was all about coin after all. “That’s a big risk for a risk-averse man. The Butcher told me you only ever choose the winning side.”
“The winning side is invariably the one I choose.”
Braggarts and boasters, she thought, pondering. Though really, what was there to ponder? She had wanted them along anyway. That they knew already of her path and purpose only made it all the easier. She reached out a hand. “I accept.”
He took it in callused fingers, kissed the back of her palm to seal the contract, and released her. His lips were dry as dust, crinkly to the touch. Her hand withdrew.
“When are we to leave, Serenity?”
With this about the secret slipping out, she had no time to waste. I cannot wait for Ranulf anymore.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
5
“He asked for you specifically,” said the burly hedge knight, breath misting in the cool of dawn. “He says he knows you, my lord. Wants to help, he claims.”
“Help?” Lythian Lindar frowned. “In what regard, Sir Hadros?” The man was like a gnarled old oak, with a bulbous nose, thick with broken veins, skin like bark, and hair the colour of dirty straw. All those days sleeping in barns, Lythian thought. Such was the life of a homeless hedge knight, going where the winds took him, serving this lord or that master to earn a bit of coin. Serve me well through this war, and you’ll earn more than just coin. When the dust settled on this Last Renewal, there would be a lot of empty estates and castles in need of men to restore them, the Knight of the Vale did not doubt. A man like Sir Hadros could do very well for himself…so long as he survived.
“He did not elaborate on that front, Captain Lythian,” the knight told him. “Could be any manner of things, I suppose. Or some trick. Wouldn’t put it past a Fireborn to try to trick us, my lord.”
“A Fireborn?”
“Aye, so it would seem by his raiment. Rich scaly armour, you know the sort, and a fancy cape to match. Says he lost his dragon during the battle. Not sure if he means it was killed by one of ours or flew away. Quite a few of them abandoned their riders when the Dread showed up, that I saw. Guess that bond isn’t so strong as they think.”
“No,” said Lythian, reflecting. He had seen with his own two eyes how easily Eldur could sever the bonds between dragon and rider, or fasten them anew. It seemed that Drulgar the Dread had the very same influence upon the dragons. And perhaps that’s something we can use, Lythian thought. There was nothing a dragonrider feared more than the breaking of their bond. “This Fireborn. Did he give a name, at least?”
“He didn’t. But I’m sure he’ll be happy to share it with you. Older man, he is. Kinda spindly, a bit lost-looking, haunted, you know the type.” Sir Hadros gave a glance around him, as men trundled here and there, collecting the dead in barrows, picking through their corpses for weapons and armour, clothes, food, whatever other provisions they could use. “Plenty of those looks about here these days, my lord. Some men just can’t hack the horror of battle. Too many of them are wet behind the ears.”
“This was no normal battle, Sir Hadros. I would not judge a man for withering when confronted by an ancient calamity like Drulgar.”
A pair of muscular shoulders went up and down. To experienced soldiers like Sir Hadros, those who wilted in war, no matter the conditions, were considered to be lesser men. Lythian would not agree with the word ‘lesser’, perhaps, but they were certainly less reliable. “If you say so, my lord. Good to sort the men from the boys, though. A man shows his true face when looking death in the eye, and I’m sorry to say it, but a lot of these lads don’t have it.”
“And many do, Sir Hadros. Let’s not deal in generalities.”
“Aye, fair enough.” He clapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them against the chill of dawn. “So, this Fireborn, then. You want to talk to him now, or…”
“Now,” Lythian said. And the pair of them stepped away.
The captives were being kept outside the city, housed in a makeshift pen erected in the ruin of the warcamp, bordered by a ring of sharpened posts, a deep, stake-lined ditch, and watched over by a strong complement of spearmen, swordsmen, and bowmen. Before the battle that camp had been occupied by the Taynar forces; now it was a broken blackened thing, a chaos of torn tents and scorched timber, burned wagons and crippled carts. Within its rotting corpse, Lythian had ordered that accommodation be made for the southern prisoners they had taken. Many had been caught once the battle was over, throwing down their arms and surrendering. Others had run at the sight of the Dread, only to return in ones and twos and small downtrodden troops, to give themselves up and hope to be granted passage home to their own lands. Whether they would be awarded such clemency was yet to be seen. That is a decision for our new king to make.
“Did any others come while I was sleeping?” Lythian asked, as they walked.
“Few more trickled in, aye. Couple of Lumarans. A cat-less Starrider. Three more Agarathi, this Fireborn included. Your dragonknight’s with them now.” Sir Hadros squinted over toward the prisoner camp, uncertain. “You sure he’s the right man for the job, my lord? This dragonknight. They’re his people, after all. He might try to let them go.”
