Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (23 page)

Somebody barked a quick “Yessir” without falling out of line.

“Rooms?”

“Empty, sir. Most of them.”

The captain fell silent, and Darin closed his eyes. He didn’t pray, not this close to Swords.

“Very well, then.”

They were going to leave. Darin’s fingers curled in tight fists as he struggled to stop shaking. They were going to leave, without ever noticing him or Erin.

“Bring in Lord Kellem.”

One of the Swords turned sharply on heel and exited the inn. Almost as an afterthought, the captain added, “Everyone will remain where they are.”

No one even attempted to differ. Where Swords were concerned, silence served best. It was a truth that everyone in the warrens could attest to. The quarterly sacrifices in Verdann were taken from a criminal levy, and not surprisingly, it was a crime to obstruct the justice of the Church or its representatives in any way.

Several heads turned as the door swung open for the second time that morning. The Sword entered and quietly resumed his place in the formation. Following closely behind came a man dressed in a crimson cloak, with burgundy pants topping black leather boots. Emblazoned across his chest in gold thread was a sword, held lengthwise as the horizon for a setting sun.

Lord Kellem.

Darin shuddered, shrinking back. He couldn’t prevent himself from turning his head to look at Gerald. The quiet giant gave a barely perceptible nod.

“Lord Kellem.” The captain bowed. “The criminal in question does not appear to be within these walls at this time. You have seen—”

“I realize that,” Lord Kellem replied distantly. He was already scanning the silent crowd.

“If you could—”

“I will do as I must, Captain. I do not need your advice.” He began to walk into the thick of the sparse crowd.

Darin’s throat tightened as he realized that Lord Kellem was heading directly toward his table. He tensed, keeping himself very still. But the lord continued to walk in his measured, slow stride; Darin felt the edge of his cloak flutter past his shoulders. He tried very hard to be small and unnoticed and in the end he succeeded; he had not trained so long and learned so many of the lessons of slavery to no avail.

But he felt no real relief as Lord Kellem spoke again. “This one. You, open your mouth.”

Gerald looked down at the lord. His only answer was silence and a tight compression of lips.

“Captain, I believe I need your assistance.”

The captain started forward, obviously annoyed by the tone of the lord’s voice, but just as obviously willing to obey. He had crossed half the distance that separated them when Lord Kellem found that the difference between the station of slave and noble did not eradicate the difference between the stature of the two. A sound that was halfway between a scream and an angry shout was cut off abruptly as he met the captain in midstride.

For a moment the entire room seemed frozen. Then a shocked murmur passed through the crowd—and the ranks of the Swords—like a wave.

Gerald stood in much the same position as he had when Lord Kellem had approached him. His eyes left the stunned Swords only once, to flicker briefly over Darin. His mouth moved, forming one silent word.

That motion, that half-born articulation of lips with no voice, was the key to Darin’s legs. The chair struck the ground and rocked to a halt; no one thought to lift it.

Yes. Leave. Darin’s eyes darted from side to side. The Swords
remained in line until their captain’s bark gave them leave to move forward.

“He’s no use to us alive—he can’t talk. Bring him down, quickly. He’s dangerous!” Lord Kellem’s face was red with anger.

If they heard Lord Kellem, they showed no signs of it; their progress was slow and measured. There was no pain here, only wary experience and the benefit of years of training.

Darin jumped toward the door that led to the kitchen. He nearly collided with Astor, who was rushing inexplicably
into
the bar, a poker—the family’s weapon of choice—tightly in hand.

“What are you doing?” Darin asked.

“My father,” Astor replied, his eyes skimming the crowd. “He’ll need my help.”

“He’s—he isn’t under attack.”

“You don’t know my father.” The poker was stiff against the boy’s leg, a brace or a crutch to his courage, not his stride. Lips moving, he counted the number of Swords to himself; he paled, but he still took a step forward, away from the safety that the kitchen door represented.

Darin almost told him that he’d miscounted. But he stopped, his hand flush against the swinging door, and looked back, ashamed.

Erin still stood with her back pressed firmly against the wooden wall. Her hand gripped the pommel of her sheathed sword.

“Erin!” The force of the whisper scratched the back of his throat.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes, glassy and wide, saw only the Swords of the Church as they closed with Gerald. In the dim light of the bar, their weapons seemed dull—more like clubs than blades. There were five, with three forming up in a secondary line, but they approached Gerald with all the respect due his size. Lord Kellem was not a small man, and Gerald had thrown him, without apparent effort, halfway across the room.

Still, the giant had no weapon and no shield.

“Look here, Captain,” Verdor said. Darin couldn’t see him. “You’ve no cause to go assaulting my customers. They’ve broken no law.”

“Shut up.”

Verdor made no reply. It seemed that Astor’s fear was unfounded.
But not for long; from the front of the tavern, the captain gave a surprised and angry shout. Darin knew the sound of a sword being drawn well; he didn’t have to see it. Straining for a glimpse anyway, he missed the first flurry of activity that signaled Gerald’s defense.

The chairs were oak and heavy; they were no match for a sword, but they were enough of a surprise to knock one man off his feet and to disarm another. Gerald held it easily, unmindful of its weight or shape. His lips curled back in a snarl, and his eyes were wide—but whether he was truly maddened or very clever, Darin couldn’t tell.

Bethany found her way into Darin’s hands, and he held her like a shield between himself and the chaos of battle. No one appeared to notice. Blades rose in the inn; blades fell. Blood speckled the floor.

Astor screamed.

And Erin, eyes suddenly flashing, drew her sword. It glowed, visible and brilliant, drawing for a moment all unwary eyes.
“No!”

She lunged forward, light on her feet, and suddenly silent; her eyes were dark but limned with unnatural light. Her blade sliced through air, cutting neatly through black chain link. Darin had hardly seen her move, so fast and sudden was her lunge. Her victim didn’t have time to realize that he was dead before she took another, separating a head quite neatly from a throat.

A pretty, useless helmet clattered to the floor and careened to a stop beneath the table. The warm liquid that splashed Darin’s cheek brought him to life.

The blade that had once been Gallin’s now sang in the hand of
a different master; Darin could hear its song, and the light along the edges of steel was cold, hard, and brilliant. The Swords could see it, too; the aura of the power of its maker was both a call to battle and a warning to the Dark Heart’s distant kin.

Gerald, mute and towering, was left alone to two men as four of the Church-trained soldiers began to confront this unforeseen enemy—a slight, pale woman who had barely been worthy of dismissal.

She reached the man on the right flank, moving low. He was surprised—seemed surprised—and then he was dead.

Darin watched. He had warned her—and had thought to join her, somehow, in battle. He couldn’t; he had no idea, suddenly, who it was he wanted to defend. The light in the alley had been poor, except when she had summoned it; here, everything was clear. Repelled and fascinated, he could not look away, and he could not move forward.

Erin struck out at the closest of the Swords, calling the light she used in battle to blind. The man screamed as her blade caught in his collarbone—and screamed again as she gave a vicious twist to free it.

She opened her mouth. Her lips moved. Darin thought she might utter a battle cry. What she did say, he heard but didn’t understand.

For a moment she stood frozen, eyebrows and mouth curved into lines of pain and fear. It was a perfect opportunity. The
Sword on the right took it, bringing his blade in to catch her ribs.

She screamed; they stopped at the sound. There was nothing human about it. There was nothing human about the tears that ran down her cheeks as she raised her face. And there was nothing natural about the slender sword arm that flashed outward, inexorably finding flesh targets.

Her lips curled, lending her face a grim, feral smile. Blood spattered upward, coloring her cheeks and brow. Darin took a step back, shielding his eyes. He no longer felt fear for Erin, but of her. He could hear her murmur, unbroken and soft, but couldn’t make out the words. When he looked again, she was a moving blur, a pale shadow. At her feet, at her feet ...

Gagging, he looked away, had to look away. She didn‘t—she couldn’t—need his help.

But Gerald did. The giant was bleeding, and the two men left to face him were whole. The chair proved a good shield in Gerald’s hands, but without a weapon to complement it, his fight was almost at an end.

The hands that held the staff of Culverne raised it high. Without a spoken word, Darin called forth Bethany’s fire and sent it like a bolt at the foremost of the Swords.

The Sword shifted and cursed, but that was all.

In confusion, Darin called white-fire again, and it came and left, traversing the room to halo the other combatant. Nothing happened.

No.
He brought the staff down in trembling hands.
No ...

He saw the point of a sword bite deeply into Gerald’s thigh. He heard Erin’s unnatural cry and looked up without hope. She was advancing quickly to the front of the bar.

Initiate,
Bethany said quietly,
she cannot be reached by you.
Wreathed through her words, like a hint of smoke, was fear.

And he knew, suddenly, what he must do. His hands almost numb, he returned Bethany to the strap at his back. No one seemed to notice him, or to consider him worthy of note. He
was grateful for it. He was grateful that he had the opportunity to prove himself worthy of more.

He took a deep breath, blocking out the sounds of the shouts and screams that surrounded him. He made himself an island of calm and dark tranquility, as Trethar had taught him to do.

He began to bend his mind into the shape necessary to touch fire, to call it forth, and to hold it. The inn receded further and further until he was only conscious of the myriad shades of gray that danced behind his eyelids. Twice he felt the gate within his grasp, and twice it slipped away.

I’m not ready for this,
he thought. But he had to be. Sweat beaded his forehead, as it had done many times during his exercises with his elderly mentor. But this time it was not due to exertion alone. His heartbeat felt like the steady drone of drums in his chest. He took another, deeper breath, fighting off his fear.

The third time he touched the gate, he held it.

Slowly, and as carefully as he could, he pulled it open, allowing the rush of warmth and unworldly flame to fill his mind. He retreated before it, keeping the core of his thoughts away from its red touch. It coiled within him like a snake that was only barely contained.

Light and image filled his mind as he opened his eyes.

Gerald still stood, but bore two new gashes across the breadth of his chest. They did not look deep, but a part of Darin knew that Gerald could not continue to suffer even minor wounds; the blood loss would kill him even if the Swords could not.

He raised his hands, focusing the power he held within. His lips opened and fumbled along the sharp edges of the words that Trethar had taught him—the words that honed his focus and control.

And fire there was, a sudden blazing blossom that opened around the feet of a Sword—the one closest to Gerald—and snapped ruthlessly shut. The man’s screams accompanied the crackle of unnatural flame before he blackened and withered.

Darin did not watch—even distanced as he was, he could not.
Instead, with grim determination, he brought his power to bear upon another armored man.

The fear of the Swords that had tethered the crowd snapped at the presence of a greater threat. As one man, the gathered crowd began to rush for the closed door of the bar. Glass crashed and scattered, and a small stream of bodies pressed through what was left of Verdor’s last window. Not even the Swords were immune to the frenzy that gripped the Red Dog’s patrons. Although some held their ground, waiting tensely for orders to follow, many left through the now-open doors, cutting a place through the line with the authority of weapons.

Darin watched them go, although it barely registered. All of his concentration was consumed in fire, in holding fire. Never before had he held it for so long; never before had he given it leave to burn and destroy as it desired.

And it did desire only this; he could feel it, trembling through the gate in his mind, with its increasing urgency and unwelcome demand. It had no voice, no words to express the desire—but this close to Darin, words were not required.