Oracle (Book 5) (35 page)

The mule raised his head slightly.

Kendril patted the animal on the side of his neck. “Look, buddy, I need your help. I’ve got at least three mercenaries holed up in that mill, probably more.”

Simon gave his head a shake.

“Don’t be silly,” Kendril said sharply. “They’ve got Tomas and Bronwyn. Of course I’m going after them.”

The mule stared straight at the Ghostwalker.

“Don’t give me that,” Kendril said with a raised finger. “If I want your opinion on a tactical situation, I’ll ask you for it.”

Simon whined softly.

“That’s not fair. That coach robbery in Shawnor was a long time ago,” Kendril said. He pulled out the whale gun and fished around in the pack for one of the iron darts. “So quit bringing it up.” He swung his head towards the mule. “Now are you going to help me or not?”

Simon pawed the ground with a hoof. He pushed his nose into Kendril’s chest.

“You can’t be serious.” Kendril checked the lock on the whale gun. “You want me to
pay
you? Are you turning mercenary too?”

Simon showed his teeth and tossed his head from side to side.

“Fine.” Kendril shouldered the whale gun. “But if you get sick after drinking that much beer, you’d better not blame me.”

The beast lowered his head.

Kendril moved around the tree, and looked down at the half-obscured shape of the mill. “All right,” he said softly, “let’s do this, boy.”

“Something’s wrong.” Thorn held the crossbow in a position to fire. He was fully alert now, standing half in the shadow of the covered bridge’s entrance. What little moonlight there was glowed off the fog that wove in and out of the nearby trees.

“The Ghostwalker couldn’t have gotten
all
of them.” Warwick kept his voice in strained whisper. He looked nervously back down the stream. “Not Mkante.”

Thorn frowned. It was too hard to see in the dark. Not enough moonlight. “Maybe we should—”

A loud crashing came from the undergrowth to the right.

Thorn turned instantly, bringing his crossbow up to his shoulder.

Warwick ducked behind the bridge’s side, aiming his own crossbow out of one of the wide openings.

Another series of blistering crashes came from the bushes. Branches snapped and broke.  Something big was moving through the undergrowth. And fast.

“Move,” Thorn ordered. He waved Warwick off to the side. “He’ll come out over there.” He stepped out into the path, tracking the sounds with his crossbow.

“Is it the Ghostwalker?” Warwick tracked his own crossbow. “Is it
him
?”

“Shut up,” Thorn snarled. He sighted along his weapon.

A mule, laden with heavy packs on his back, came crashing out into the open by the stream. He turned his head and brayed loudly at the two mercenaries.

Thorn lowered his crossbow with an angry grunt. “Talin’s ashes, it’s just a stupid—”

His head vanished in an explosion of red matter. The same instant a rifle shot sounded clear and hard over the sound of the roaring stream.

Colonel Belvedere looked up at the sound of the gunshot. He frowned. “What was that? It wasn’t Gregor.”

Bronwyn cowered in the corner next to Tomas. She kept one hand pressed to her red cheek, the other one tucked behind her. “Silly man.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s
him
.”

Belvedere’s face blanched. He turned and motioned to Duval.

The Baderan knight knelt and extinguished the lamp in the room. Everything plunged into a murky darkness.

Belvedere moved back to the window. “Keep your eyes open,” he hissed to Duval. “And watch the door.”

“He’s
coming
,” came Bronwyn’s sing-song voice in the darkness of the rom.

Gregor shifted his position, moving his rifle barrel along the edge of the window sill. He had seen a brief flash somewhere up the hill to the right, but it had just been for a moment.

One of the mercenaries was down, his head blown clean off. From here Gregor couldn’t tell if it was Thorn or Warwick. Not that it really mattered much to him.

This Ghostwalker, though. He was a sharpshooter, using a well-made hunting rifle. No smoothbore musket could make a shot like that, in the dark and at that kind of distance.

Gregor breathed evenly, keeping the barrel of his long rifle well inside the window. He had the advantage, now. He just needed to keep out of sight and wait for this Ghostwalker to show himself.

All Gregor needed was one clean view. Just one good shot.

The mule brayed again, then began to trot away down the bank of the stream.

Warwick ignored the animal. He ducked down low against the side of the bridge, looking around frantically for the source of the shot that had killed Thorn.

Whoever this man was, he was as good a shot as Gregor. Maybe better.

Warwick began edging back towards edge of the bridge. He did his best to keep his eyes off the remains of Thorn’s body. He took a breath, and readied his crossbow. All he needed was a target. Any target at all.

His hands were trembling. Warwick forced them to stop. He had seen battle before, had fought in wars since he was a youth. Death was nothing new to him. That man out in the dark was just a man. He could bleed just like any other man.

Warwick moved to the edge of the bridge. He sighted along the crossbow, covering the path that ran away from the bridge and up the hill. Sooner or later, this Ghostwalker or whoever it was would have to show himself.

Warwick kept the crossbow ready to fire. He took a step forward.

A click sounded to his left.

“Hi there,” a voice whispered.

Carefully, Warwick turned his head to one side.

Pressed against the outer side of the covered bridge, and standing half in the freezing cold water of the stream, was the Ghostwalker. His face was covered with a black hood, and a black cloak was draped over his almost invisible form. He held a pistol that was aimed directly at Warwick’s head.

“Drop it,” the Ghostwalker said.

Warwick dropped his crossbow. It occurred to him in a sickening moment that Gregor couldn’t see either of them from where he was watching from the second floor of the mill.

The Ghostwalker waved the gun. “Now move.”

Gregor swung the barrel of his rifle around.

He couldn’t see
anyone
anymore. Just that stupid mule that was trotting along the edge of the stream, and the mercenary’s headless body at the far end of the bridge.

Gregor shifted, pulling up his rifle and moving towards the next window. He nestled down and peered into the dark terrain in front of him.

With the low moonlight and the creeping fog, it was a challenge to see anything at all. It was a miracle that—

Someone moved, emerging cautiously from the near end of the covered bridge.

Gregor trained his rifle on the figure.

A man, dressed in a black hooded cloak. A Ghostwalker. He began running towards the mill.

Gregor tracked his movement with the long rifle, exhaled, and fired.

The rifle shot cracked out into the night air, loud and piercing.

Duval glanced over across the darkened mill room at Belvedere.

 “I got him!” came Gregor’s voice from through the ceiling. “Another Ghostwalker. He’s down.”

Tomas closed his eyes and hung his head.

Belvedere grinned. “Problem solved.” He gestured to Duval. “Go out and check it out.” He looked down at Tomas and Bronwyn. “I’ll watch these two.”

Duval nodded and head towards the door.

Gregor pulled back from the window, and began the process of reloading his rifle. It would take at least two minutes, and Gregor liked to make sure he was ready for any contingency. His alert eyes continued scanning the scenery outside.

The Ghostwalker lay on the path, unmoving. A dark patch of blood was already seeping into the ground underneath him.

The sniper smiled as he bit off the end of his rifle cartridge.

Easier than popping a jack rabbit.

Duval moved outside, his sword clutched tightly in one hand. The chinks in his mail clinked as he moved.

The Ghostwalker lay face down in the dirt.

Duval walked up to him and kicked his foot underneath the body, the flipped it over.

The smile on the Baderan knight’s face vanished.

Even in the thick darkness, he could recognize the features of the face.

It was Warwick.

Duval looked up with a start. He gripped his sword with both hands.

A man emerged from the shadows of the bridge. The Ghostwalker. The
real
Ghostwalker.

With a shout, Duval lowered his head and charged.

Without pausing his step, the Ghostwalker lifted a pistol and fired.

Gregor hesitated for a moment in the middle of his reloading process, staring wide-eyed out the window.

There was a spark and flash from Duval’s breastplate as the pistol ball hit him. He tumbled back to the ground.

The Ghostwalker kept striding forward. He tossed the spent pistol to the ground and reached for something slung around his shoulder.

Gregor ducked below the window, using the sill as cover. He kept reloading the rifle, going through each motion with deliberate swiftness.

The Ghostwalker slung out some kind of short-barreled musket. As Gregor watched the man clicked back the lock on his weapon.

With a musket at this range, Gregor had little to worry about. Even if the Ghostwalker could shoot accurately at this distance, the thick wood of the mill’s wall was more than enough to—

There was a flash and a thundering boom like a small cannon going off.

The iron dart of the whale gun whistled through the air and punched a hole the size of a pumpkin just below the mill’s second story window.

Before Gregor even knew what was happening, the projectile had slammed into his chest.

He was dead before he hit the opposite side of the room.

“What in the
Void
—?” Belvedere roared.

A crash came from upstairs, a sound like boards pattering onto the floor and a heavy object thudding into into something solid.

Bronwyn smiled. “I
told
you,” she said teasingly.

Tomas grunted and tried to get to his feet, his arms still tied behind his back.

Belvedere noticed and dashed up to him. “Stay down!” He slammed the butt of his musket across Tomas’ face.

Tomas collapsed back to the ground, practically landing on top of Bronwyn.

Belvedere turned back towards the open door of the mill.

The cloud of smoke from the whale gun was enormous. It hung in the air in a tattered black cloud.

Kendril dropped the weapon, gasping with pain. The recoil had been greater than he had anticipated. He was fairly certain the wound on his arm had started bleeding again. His right arm had gone almost numb from the shot.

With a groan the Baderan clad in armor climbed back to his feet. He shook his head, then lifted his sword. His armor was dented where the pistol shot had hit him.

Kendril reached for his short swords.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Ghostwalker,” the Baderan growled. He launched forward.

Kendril took a step back, careful not to put weight on his bad knee. He had tied a piece of cloth tightly around it as a makeshift brace, but it wasn’t helping as much as he had hoped.

The Baderan roared like a bear. He swung his gigantic sword at Kendril’s head.

Kendril dodged to one side, pivoting on his good leg.

The greatsword passed through the air in front of his face and gouged into the dirt of the road.

Kendril swiped quickly with one of his swords. The blade deflected off the Baderan’s armor.

With a cruel grin the Baderan swept his mighty sword upwards.

Kendril tried to block with his other short sword. The force of the blow was so powerful that he was knocked back several steps, right to the edge of the roaring stream. He barely managed to hold onto his weapon. His sword arm ached all the way up to the shoulder.

The Baderan swung the greatsword in a great windmill over his head and charged Kendril again.

Kendril tried to ignore his freshly bleeding arm and throbbing knee. He planted his feet and prepared to take the impact.

The Baderan screamed in a kind of furious rage. He chopped his sword down with a force that would have broken an anvil in two.

At the last possible instant, Kendril darted off to one side. He rolled off into the tall grass along the edge of the bank.

The Baderan sliced his sword down through empty space. He frantically tried to curtail his forward movement, but the force of momentum and gravity were too great. He stumbled over the edge of the bank and into the foaming stream below with a might crash of water.

Kendril limped to the edge of the bank and glanced over the side.

The Baderan was bobbing in the deep water, already being pushed quickly downstream by the mighty current. The next moment, his head vanished under the white-capped flow.

The one downside to fifty pounds of armor.

Kendril turned back around.

A mercenary in buckskin with a slouched hat stood outside the door of the mill. He held a loaded flintlock musket, leveled right at Kendril. The smallest hint of a smile was on his face. “Mr. Kendril, I presume?”

Their eyes locked for a moment.

Kendril broke to his left.

Colonel Belvedere fired.

A blow like the kick of a horse struck Kendril on his right side. He spun from the hit and slammed back into the ground. A fiery stab of pain shot all the way through his right hip. His head was just a foot or two from the edge of the steep bank.

Colonel Belvedere appeared above him. The smoking musket was still in his hands.

Kendril tried to stand. Pain exploded through the right side of his body. He fell back to the ground. His right leg was almost entirely numb. What little he could feel of his hip was wet with hot blood.

He had been shot too many times before not to know what had happened. It felt like the musket ball had passed all the way through the flesh of his upper leg, thank Eru. He could only hope that no major arteries had been severed.