Chương 23: V1: Chapter 20 - Assassin

Royce was good at navigating crowds. Small and agile, he could also anticipate currents and knots, working them to his advantage. Hadrian followed in his wake, swimming through the gap before it closed again. On the few occasions when Royce hit a dam, it took only a menacing stare to get people out of his way. Men with big fists and calluses avoided him for the same reason some pretty women never attracted suitors: People silently communicated with body language, eye contact, and open or closed stances.

Some said, I'm friendly, talk to me; Royce' s message was the same as a pointed blade. His glare could be relied upon to intimidate a roomful of hardened criminals, and the effect was magnified on simple farmers, mothers, and their children. To them, he must look like death moving their way. Most couldn't get out of his path fast enough. Royce made for the far wall. That was the obvious spot.

The raised parapet on that side of the courtyard was entirely draped in banners, perfect for concealment; was a reasonable distance to the target — less than a hundred yards — and held a direct and unobstructed line of sight to the stage. Even an idiot like Fawkes could be counted on to solve that riddle. He clearly had. The far parapet was the only one without a ladder. The killer was up there neatly isolated. He could take his shot, then drop down outside the wall to a waiting horse.

The assassin would be gone before anyone even knew what happened. Once the crowd noticed, the ensuing chaos would choke the courtyard, severely inhibiting any pursuit. When Lady Dulgath entered and took her seat, Royce considered dashing to the stage to warn her but decided against it. The assassin was already up in his nest, probably looking down the stock of a crossbow and waiting for a signal to shoot.

Royce's attempt to warn Nysa might become that signal, and he was hoping there was still time to stop the assassination. Royce's one advantage was that the killer didn't know he was coming any more than Lady Dulgath knew she was about to be murdered. As long as the plan remained unaltered, there would be no reason for the assassin to rush the shot. If Royce and Hadrian could gain access to the parapet, and if the bowman was intent on his target, they might be able to get close.

If so, Royce would assassinate the assassin. Then he would face a decision. They could just disappear — should just disappear. He and Hadrian could follow the same exit plan the bowman had prepared. Every reasonable thought in his mind demanded that they leave. Then, he could come back later and pay Fawkes and Payne a visit on a dark, quiet night of his choosing, in a place no one would hear their screams. He could kill Fawkes whenever he wanted. It didn't — wouldn't — have to be in front of an audience.

The other less sensible option whispered teasingly in his ear to take care of everything right then. He could fill in for the crossbowman, but instead of putting a bolt through Lady Dulgath, he'd punch a hole in Fawkes — or Hadrian would. He was better at such things and had the benefit of two working hands. The only question was whether his partner would have the stomach for it. Hadrian still suffered from the handicap of his imagined morals.

If the quarrel pinned Fawkes upright in his chair — as they sometimes did — the ceremony might conclude with his death undiscovered until they came for His Lordship's chair. With all the noise of the crowd, and everyone's attention on the king and the lady, perhaps no one would notice. The powers that be could easily blame the dead assassin lying next to the bow, and he and Hadrian could leave for home that very afternoon without any worry of being hunted.

The more he thought about it, the more Royce liked that option. Killing Fawkes with the same weapon he planned to murder Nysa with had a poetic irony that appealed to him. And it would be nice to turn Fawkes's moment of triumph into his downfall, but Royce knew he was also being stupid. Emotions did that; passion made idiots out of everyone. Royce hated Fawkes and wanted him dead more than anyone since Lord Exeter, the High Constable of Medford who had beaten Gwen a year before.

He tried to convince himself it was because Fawkes had attempted to put Royce back in Manzant, the abyss where he'd spent the worst years of his life. That was more than reason enough for a death sentence. The last time Royce had been sent to Manzant, he'd rewarded those responsible with what was still referred to in the city of Colnora as the Year of Fear, even though it only took place over one summer.

Royce also tried to rationalize that Fawkes's other transgressions contributed to his desire to end the miscreant's life then and there: his mangled hands, drugging Hadrian, selling them like slaves. All told Fawkes had four capital crimes to pay for, but even all of them wouldn't have put Royce in that crowded courtyard on that afternoon. As much as he hated to admit it, he was there because of her. He was trying to save Nysa, but justifying his actions by pretending he only cared about revenge.

He reasoned that ruining Fawkes's plan was an additional victory. Suffering fools wasn't something Royce was good at, even when he was the fool. His rationalizations were crap, just excuses for his reckless behavior, and that truth was a problem for him. She looks so much like Gwen. The thought bobbed up, but he dismissed the notion as he had his previous justifications — just one more excuse.

Sure, she had dark hair and olive-colored skin, but she wasn't as dark-skinned as Gwen; plus, she lacked the distinctive Calian features. Still, they both had a similar, and uncanny, ability to read him and shared an eerily haunting wisdom. The real reason was something else, something more, something he couldn't understand, and that lack of understanding scared him. She feels familiar. When she speaks, it's as if she knows me.

Beyond all that, the fact that Hadrian hadn't balked about rescuing the countess, or hesitated at the idea of preventing the assassination, was evidence he was making a huge mistake. Yet despite all this, Royce was pushing through the crowd and making his way to a ladder laying in the grass, close enough for emergencies, but too far away to invite anyone to use it. He's rubbing off on me. Royce scowled at the thought, and his expression sent a little girl falling over herself to dart out of his way.

She continued watching him long after he'd moved past. The day was warm, and the sun shone clear and bright, but when Royce glanced back at that girl, she shivered. And I'm not even after you, he thought, feeling the stiff boards wrapped tightly to his hand and left middle finger. The three good fingers and thumb of his left hand were more than enough to hold Alverstone, and that dagger could cut anything.

He'd recovered the white blade from the belt of one of the Manzant slavers, where it had been casually stuffed like a pair of old gloves. If the slaver had succeeded in stealing it, Royce would've spent the rest of his days hunting him down, even if he had to excavate Manzant in the process. The blade was all he had to remember the man who had made the weapon — the first person to challenge Royce's worldview, the closest thing he'd ever had to a father, to a savior.

Usually to make something truly great, you need to start from scratch, Royce remembered him saying. You need to break everything down, strip away the impurities, and it takes great heat to do that, but once you do, then the building can start. The result can seem miraculous, but the process — the process is always a bitch. Royce tried to squeeze his right hand and winced. The process is always a bitch. No one was looking as he and Hadrian reached the ladder.

"You want it over there?" Hadrian asked, nodding toward the banners, but it was more of a statement than a question. When you knew what to look for it was easy to see. Once Hadrian set the ladder, Royce led the way up. Using only the two outside fingers of his left hand, he climbed with no more difficulty than if it had been steps. Partway up, he disappeared beneath the blue-and-white standard of House Dulgath. If I were doing this, I'd set up the crossbow down and to the left.

Better angle and more reaction time if anyone comes up. But then if I were doing this, I would've pulled up the ladder. Not for the first time, Royce wondered who he'd find holding the bow. Not Tom the Feather or Roosevelt Hawkins, and probably not a bucketman from the Diamond. Creeping up the last few rungs, Royce poked his head above the level of the catwalk. Beneath the banners was a dim world, a long tunnel formed by the parapet, roofed and walled on one side by the huge linen pennants.

On the outer side, merlons left squared open spaces, giving views outside the castle. Muted sunlight lent the space a tentlike feel. The underside of the banners acted as the backside of stained glass along the corridor. Less than twenty feet to his left, a man lay on his stomach with his hips turned, one leg bent and the other straight to fit within the narrow passage. He was bald, heavily tanned and tattooed.

His arms were wrapped around a massive crossbow, his cheek resting on its stock; the weapon's nose barely protruded through the gap between the standard of Dulgath and the banner of Maranon. The prow of the bow was mounted on a stand, the other end pressed against the bald man's shoulder. As Royce had expected, a rope was tied around a merlon behind the assassin — his escape route. Hasn't seen me. A bell began ringing.

Royce reached into his cloak and gingerly drew Alverstone with his left hand before creeping onto the parapet. The bowman was so intent on his target he never noticed. Too intent. The killer's eyes narrowed, and he was holding his breath. The bell! It's a signal. A busted right hand made it impossible to accurately throw his dagger. Instead, he raced toward the assassin, but a diving hawk couldn't cut that distance faster than the bald man could squeeze a trigger. Only two strides separated them when... Thwack!

The sound was loud. Somewhere in the courtyard below, came a faint, muffled thrump! Followed by screams. Royce wondered if the shooter had even seen where his shot landed before his throat was cut. The assassin was dead, but a price was paid. A jolt of pain exploded from Royce's broken finger as he killed the bowman. Soaked in blood, the slick blade slipped from his fingers. Alverstone hit the the parapet and fell through to the courtyard below.

"Damn it!" Hadrian, who had caught up to Royce, was pulling back the edge of the pennant.

"Did he hit her?" Royce whispered. Hadrian drew the banner aside further so both of them could peer out. Lady Dulgath sat slumped in her beautiful blue gown, a massive quarrel protruding from the center of her chest. She's dead. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Two knights were on their feet. One drew his sword, looking through the crowd for the enemy. Everyone else stared at the chair to the right of King Vincent. Hadrian released the cloth and it slid back into place.

"Can you climb down the rope with your hands like that?" Hadrian asked. Before Royce could answer, a communal gasp rose from the courtyard. Several people screamed.

"She's alive!" someone shouted. That one voice managed to cut through the murmur of the crowd. Royce peeled back the canvas and saw the impossible. Nysa Dulgath's eyes were open. With both hands she pulled the quarrel from her body, looking at it, stunned. How could she... how could anyone survive being impaled with a bolt that size. Nysa dropped the quarrel. It hit the stage with a hollow clunk. Blood soaked the front of her once beautiful gown, turning the blue to black.

She coughed, and blood bubbled out of her mouth, spilling in a gruesome display down her chin and neck. Her eyes looked up, looked across the length of the courtyard, looked directly at Royce. Help me, she mouthed. They were separated by almost three hundred feet but she knew he was up there, once more hiding, once more watching. She always knew when he was near, and that he could see her lips because he was elven.

The sound of someone climbing the ladder caught Royce's attention, and he let go of the canvas, blocking his view of the lady and her pleading eyes. Knox's voice arrived before he did.

"Shervin! Damn you. Load another bolt or I'll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!" When his head cleared the parapet he froze.

"Melborn! Blackwater?" Hadrian drew his swords and charged toward Knox, but the sheriff wasn't a fool. Grabbing an end of the banner, he leapt; his weight did the rest. Sheriff Knox fell to the courtyard bringing the blue-and-white standard of Dulgath with him. He pointed at Royce and the arbalest shouting, "Assassin! Assassin!" His men headed his way, pushing through the crowd. Hadrian dragged the ladder up. He jerked his head toward the rope.

"I can buy you some time, but make it fast. Get moving." The knights, along with other guards, continued their way toward the wall, hampered by the crowd. People were crying, as they backed away from the stage. King Vincent stood beside Nysa, shocked. Lady Dulgath continued looking at Royce with desperate eyes. Help me. I'll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!

"I'm not leaving," Royce said.

"What?" Hadrian shot back.

"We need to get her out. Here, help me load another quarrel." Royce fumbled, trying to work the arbalest.

"Get her out? Royce, there's a thousand people between us and her. Maybe two thousand. How do you expect —" He shook his head.

"Royce, get on the rope!"

"We can't leave her here. You heard what Knox said."

"Royce, you're being stupid! Get down the rope. It's not going to take them long to get another ladder."

"No."

"Since when are you a hero? Look, I'm all for saving people, but there is no way to get her out!"

"Yeah, there is. But I need your help." Royce said, continuing to work the weapon with his mangled hands.

"Get over here." Hadrian looked skeptical but joined Royce at the arbalest. He rotated the crank, spinning it as quickly as he could, pulling back the wire.

"Okay, so what's the plan?"

"You're going down to the courtyard and carry Nysa Dulgath out the gate. Then, put her in the wagon and I'll use the rope to meet you outside the wall."

"If I go down there, they'll kill me," Hadrian said as the wire reached it's firing position.

"I won't let them."

"You won't let them. How you going to —?"

"Just trust me!" Hadrian stared at Royce for a moment, only a second, then nodded. Seeing him do it, seeing Hadrian accept trust me as an argument worth risking his life for, disgusted Royce. Had the situation been reversed, he never would've agreed. Royce would've already left. Would I? Would I leave him behind to die? He wanted to believe he would, but...

"What are you going to do?" Hadrian asked as he placed the bolt.

"Play chess." The bell rang. Payne had been tasked with pulling the rope. The idea being that the noise would cover the sound of the shot. Christopher was preparing to look surprised, but he needn't have bothered — it came as a genuine shock when the quarrel struck Nysa. He'd heard the crack, as if someone had split wood. In point of fact, Gerami had done exactly that. The quarrel had punched through Lady Dulgath's chest and shattered the wooden back of her seat.

Christopher had to fight off a smile now that the deed was done. It's over! I'm going to be earl! The next shock came when Knox called out the thieves' names, and cut away the banner. Why aren't they in Manzant? The thought fought with the sight before his eyes. Then the third shock hit. Nysa Dulgath sat up, and opened her eyes. The delicate woman reached up and with both hands pulled the quarrel from her body. The bolt was dark with blood.

She pressed her left hand to the wound and dropped the quarrel with her right. Then, both hands pressed, blood leaked through her fingers. How is she still alive? He couldn't have been the only one thinking this. The knights jumped out of their chairs, and the king's men retreated, but no one moved to help Nysa. Not even the king, who stood an arm's length away. She's going to die. No one can take a hit like that and live. This is just some freakish thing. She's going to collapse at any minute. But she didn't.

Nysa continued to hold her palms to the wound and stare at the distant parapet, where the knights had directed guards. While they were searching for a way to assail the wall, a voice rose above the murmuring of the crowd.

"No one move — or the king dies!" Everything stopped. Royce shouted his command again to make certain everyone heard. Vincent started to retreat.

"That especially includes you, Your Majesty!" he added. Vincent froze. Royce continued, "I won't hesitate to punch a hole in the king, so don't test me. Everyone is going to do exactly what I say. If you don't, the king will die. Even if I'm killed afterward, imagine the treatment you'll receive for acting so rashly."

"What do you want?" Vincent shouted back.

"First, tell everyone to do as I say." The king hesitated.

"Do as he says, Vinny," Bessie pleaded while sobbing. She had rushed from her bunting-covered chair to be at the king's side when Lady Dulgath was hit.

"Quiet, woman!"

"Look at Lady Dulgath. Look at that quarrel. I've got another aimed at your chest," Royce said.

"Do what he says!" the king shouted.

"Wise man. Second, I want you, and everyone else, to be silent. I'm the only one allowed to talk. Wouldn't want the king to die because someone couldn't hear me. Third, I want Your Majesty to sit back down. You're not going anywhere for a while." The king didn't hesitate this time. He took his seat, putting both hands on the arms of the chair. He looked decidedly terrified.

"Now my friend is going to lower a ladder. Those of you at the bottom will want to move away. If anyone gets anywhere close to him, if anyone so much as gives him a dirty look... well, by now you ought to know what will happen. So for the sake of your king — and the wrath that'll rain down on you and yours if you do anything to cause his death — give my friend a wide berth." The silence in the courtyard was so complete that Christopher heard the creak of the ladder as Hadrian Blackwater climbed down.

What are they doing? Watching the crowd part, seeing Hadrian move toward him, Christopher felt his grand scheme collapsing. What if they tell what they know? Will the king believe them? No. He won't, not now. They're threatening his life. This might work out after all. Hadrian walked straight up to the center of the stage and was the only one to touch Lady Dulgath. As he stooped down to lift Nysa, Vincent whispered to Blackwater, "You'll hang for this."

"No, we won't," Royce shouted, making the king start.

"And I said no talking." With a pained grunt, Hadrian lifted Nysa in his arms. Her head wobbled; her eyes wandered blindly. One arm fell limp. Blackwater carried the countess off the stage and headed toward the front gate beneath the stare of thousands of eyes. As Hadrian passed Christopher, he heard Nysa whisper, "Going to pass out. Get — get me to the monastery. Tell Royce... have to get me to the Abbey of Brecken Moor. You have to tell... you have to..."

"I heard. Calm down," Hadrian replied.

"Save your strength."

"My strength is gone." The whole of the courtyard watched as he carried their lady out the gate, leaving a trail of blood that dripped from the end of that long blue gown.

"What did you do?" Scarlett gasped, her eyes threatening to fall out of her head as Hadrian laid Nysa Dulgath in the bed of the wagon. He did it as gently and carefully as he could, but the woman was a wilted rag covered in blood. Her dress was a sponge from which dripped a thick drizzle. Her skin felt slick and slippery. While Nysa Dulgath couldn't have weighed much more than a hundred pounds, his ribs told him that carrying her had been too much.

The stress had sent jolts not only to his side, but up to his shoulder and down his back. Taking deep breaths didn't help, but he needed one — more than one. Hadrian's arms were shaking with pain by the time he set her on the buckboard. Scarlett had leapt up and scrambled to make a bed from the blankets they'd left in the wagon. She helped ease Nysa down and rolled up another blanket for a pillow, plucking blades of grass off it, as if Lady Dulgath would care.

"Drive the wagon to the wall over there." Hadrian pointed.

"Around the back you'll see a rope dangling from the parapet. Royce will be down in a minute. I hope."

"What did you do?" Scarlett repeated in an accusatory tone, continuing to fuss over Lady Dulgath. Does she think I did this? Fine, I'll drive. Hadrian stepped on the spoke of a wheel and pulled himself upto the driver's seat. More pains, sharp as needles — very long needles — stabbed him in the side, stealing what little breath he had, and making him clench his teeth. Hurt myself carrying her.

Hadrian took the reins off the stock, disengaged the wheel's brake, and urged the team forward with a kissing sound he'd heard Scarlett make, along with a jiggle and slap of the long leather straps. Feeling the wagon move, Scarlett looked up at him.

"What's going on? What did you do?" Hadrian wheeled them toward the wall. The bounce and rattle of the wagon that made him twist in his seat did nothing to comfort him as he sucked in two more careful breaths.

"When Royce gets here, we're going to go really fast," Hadrian said, realizing how poor the suspension was on the wagon and how much the trip would hurt. He glanced back at Nysa, her pale face rocking from side to side with the motion of the wagon. She was either dead or unconscious; either way, she wasn't going to suffer.

"Where are we going?" Hadrian looked down at Nysa.

"The Abbey of Brecken Moor."

"The abbey? But —" They both looked up to see a dark figure slip over the wall. Legs wrapped around the rope, Royce slid down like a raindrop on a string. Then he sprinted toward the wagon, shouting, "Go! Go!" Hadrian slapped the reins, sending the wagon forward in a lurch as Royce jumped up. He caught the arm of the front seat with his three good fingers and plopped down beside Hadrian.

The wagon bucked and banged over ruts, throwing Hadrian into the air and slamming him down again so hard he squeezed his eyes shut and saw little dancing lights. When he reached the road, the earthquake stopped. There was plenty of shaking and still a little rocking, but they were no longer being tossed in the air like children on a tarp at a spring fair. Royce climbed into the back.

"What did you do?" Scarlett asked him, shouting over the rumble of the wagon and the hiss of the wind.

"How is she?" Royce replied.

"She's drooling blood! That's how she is!"

"What's that mean? Hadrian, you're sort of a doctor, can you —""I'm not a doctor — but even I know she should have died five minutes ago. Should have checked out the moment she was hit." Hadrian braced himself as they rolled through a dip that turned out not to be as bad as he thought.

"That bow was an arbalest. In the army, we used them to pierce armor, kill horses, and shatter the wheels of assault towers. A single quarrel will stop a charging water buffalo. Royce, there's no way she's going to live. She's spitting red because at least one lung is punctured, or more likely shredded. She's drowning in her own blood — what little she has left." Royce looked at Scarlett.

"You know anyone who can help her?"

"Hadrian said we're taking her to the abbey. I think that is the best place."

"The abbey? Why there?"

"Don't ask me," Scarlett said.

"It's where she asked to be taken," Hadrian supplied.

"Then that settles it," Royce declared. Scarlett shook her head.

"Wagon won't go up that trail." Hadrian's attention was on the road, but the few glances he gave back to the three passengers revealed a sorry scene. Not trusting the makeshift pillow, Scarlett was cradling Nysa's head in her lap, her legs to either side of the lady. She looked close to tears as the wind whipped her fiery hair. Royce held on to the wagon's rail with his relatively good hand, rocking side to side and frowning at Nysa.

"She's right," Hadrian said.

"We'll get partway maybe, but it narrows, gets too steep and rocky."

"We can switch horses in Brecken Dale," Scarlett shouted.

"Get fresh mounts, saddle them, and leave the wagon, but someone will need to carry her on horseback — ride tandem."

"I'll take her," Royce said. They hit another bump, and Hadrian grunted. If it weren't for Scarlett, Lady Dulgath's head would've been clapping on the wood. She wouldn't feel it. The lady couldn't feel anything, and he was certain she never would again.

"Is anyone going to tell me what happened in there?" Scarlett shouted. She was angry, frustrated, scared, and still holding Lady Dulgath's head, brushing the woman's hair away from her face.

"Got there too late," Hadrian said.

"Then Royce threatened to kill the King of Maranon."

"You're not serious?" Scarlett looked at Royce.

"That's got to be a step up, even for you."

"You want to tell me why we're doing this, Royce?" Hadrian asked.

"Normally this is the sort of thing you'd be yelling at me for." Royce didn't answer. He had his head cocked back, looking up at the sky.

"Anyone else notice that it's starting to rain?"