The Death of Dulgath (27 page)

Sherwood had memorized the note and replayed the words in his head as he dug his sword out of a pile in the corner of his room. No rust on the metal, but plenty on the man. Sherwood had taken better care of the blade than he had of himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, or when he’d done anything more strenuous than a long walk.

Like everything else, he’d inherited the blade from Yardley; where Yardley had gotten it, no living soul knew. Nothing too fancy, the sword had a straight guard and a hawk’s-head pommel, but the work was of high quality and the blade professional, not merely decorative. Traveling artists didn’t carry much, so whatever they kept long enough to hand down was worth the effort. In most kingdoms of Avryn, able-bodied men were required by their lords to own a weapon and use it if called upon. But only nobles and those so authorized, such as soldiers and sheriffs, openly carried. As a result, he, like his predecessors, kept the weapon in his bedroll—out of sight, but close at hand.

Sherwood had been accosted on several occasions. Mostly, one or two toughs came at him, usually armed with only a single knife between them. Pulling the sword from his bedroll nearly always ended the encounter. But there had been times when he’d faced thieves brandishing their own weapons—true highwaymen who weren’t deterred by the show of a long blade—and Sherwood had been forced to fight for his life.

He’d done well. Sherwood was certain he’d killed at least one man but hadn’t lingered to make certain. In another fight, he’d stabbed a young tough, no more than seventeen, through the stomach. He, too, probably died. In more than six fights, Sherwood had survived, suffering just three wounds, and only one of those could be considered serious. Luckily, Yardley had also taught him how to sew up a cut.

Sherwood harbored no illusions of his prowess. He only hoped that if Lady Dulgath required his blade, his skills would be equal to the task. He waited, watching the sun sink into the ocean. It was only three-quarters set, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to arrive before she did.

Strapping the sword to his waist, he took the stairs two at a time and sprinted out of the castle.

Sherwood,
the note had read.
Meet me at the cliffs on the west side of the castle at sunset. I need help, and you’re the only one I can trust.

His emotions were a volatile mix of jubilation and terror. The revelation that she both trusted and needed him was a blast of pure joy. That she was so desperate to meet outside the castle, in such a secluded place made him dread what she might say.

Perhaps she wants to come away with me?

No. That would be too much to hope for. He was letting his emotions override reason. Likely she needed him to pass a message to King Vincent, something she couldn’t trust going through Wells or Rissa Lyn.

Sherwood ran across the courtyard and out the gate, making a quick left and hugging the wall before veering off into the grassy bluffs on the blind side of the castle. The wind was stronger there as it came off the ocean with a damp salty blast that permanently bent the hip-deep grass.

She’s scared of someone in the castle—maybe everyone…“You’re the only one I can trust.”

Clearly, she couldn’t trust Rissa Lyn, but did she know her handmaiden believed she was a demon?

No,
he realized then, saw it clearly.
You’d love a monster when…I’m…I’m right in front of you…
Rissa Lyn was jealous and either making things up or suffering from some form of delusion. Regardless of her feelings, she had to realize that wild accusations weren’t going to keep him from Nysa.
I’ll talk to her later…let her down easy.

He ripped through the tall, wind-battered grass, which lashed at his feet and legs. The sounds of the surf grew louder; overhead, gulls cried. On the western side, the sunset tower of Castle Dulgath stood on the very edge of the promontory’s sea-worn tip. The eight-story stone pillar, which appeared to be an extension of the cliffs, had no windows on that side. Some sixty feet below, relentless waves crashed against the stubborn stone.

Someone was near the base of the tower—a dark figure standing in the shadowed gap between two of the tower’s massive carved feet. Sherwood slowed his run to a hesitant trot when he realized it wasn’t Nysa, not even a woman. It was a man in a black cloak, the hood up.

“What are you doing here?” Sherwood asked, stopping short.

“Why, waiting for you, of course,” Lord Fawkes replied. The wind on top of the cliffs was chaotic and violent, forcing Fawkes to grip the edges of his cloak to keep it from whipping like a flag. Despite his effort, the lower edges flapped behind him like a startled bird.

“
You
sent the message?” Sherwood kept his distance. He was out of breath, tired, and sweating from the run.

“Yes, I needed to speak with you privately, and I didn’t think you’d come at my request.” Fawkes stepped forward one stride. Maybe he was trying to get out of the wind or felt uncomfortable between the tower’s claws. “You’ve actually succeeded in getting Nysa to fall for you.”

“Fall?”

“Don’t be modest, boy. I spoke to her this morning and explained how the king might be uncomfortable with her appointment, her being the last of the Dulgath line and all. I offered my hand in marriage but was rebuffed. Apparently she’s found someone else. I know she has high standards—and I couldn’t imagine you had inexplicably leapt that bar.”

Sherwood wanted to believe. “She said there was someone else? Maybe she just wasn’t interested in you.”

“She was quite sincere and rather specific.”

“What
exactly
did she say? Did she mention me by name?”

“No, but she spoke of a man who visits her regularly. Someone she’s getting to know better each day, and the more she learns about him, the more she has come to believe that she has found someone she could be with.”

“She…she said that?”

“Yes, but don’t get your hopes up. You aren’t going to live happily ever after. I invited you to leave, but you didn’t take the hint. Now I must insist.” He let go of his cloak, freeing it to fly behind him and fall to the grass, exposing his sword.

Sherwood fell back, drawing his own. “I won’t leave. I’d rather die.”

Fawkes looked at the blade, puzzled. “What’s a painter doing with a sword? Was that a gift? Do you even know how to hold it?”

Sherwood grinned. “I’ve killed men with this—men who’d attacked me. How about you? Done a lot of exhibitions, I suspect. Performed pretty dances before courtly audiences with tipped blades, perhaps? I don’t think many draw steel against the king’s cousin and mean it.”

“Oh, they’ve meant it,” Fawkes said, striding toward him and drawing his blade. “I’m not well liked by many in Mehan. People have lost limbs and some have died in exhibitions. Are you sure you want to do this? I’m giving you one last chance. You can simply leave.”

“And I’ll extend you the same courtesy. Leave now. Nysa has made her choice.”

“I’ll stay. This should be fun; don’t you think?”

“For one of us,” Sherwood retorted.

Lord Fawkes swung first. Sherwood danced back, letting the blade sing through the air.

He had most of his wind back, but he’d burned energy rushing to the cliff. Fawkes had the advantage of rest. On the other hand, the trip had warmed Sherwood, loosening his muscles. Fawkes could have been standing in the cool wind for who knew how long.

Sherwood let him swing again. The same move, right to left with a downward angle. A power stroke, attempting to take advantage of Sherwood’s weak side. Or maybe the lord was just testing him, trying to get a feel for his ability.

A good fight is a short fight,
Yardley always had said.
Show him nothing. Conserve your energy while burning his. Then, at the first opportunity, end it.

Sherwood and Fawkes crashed blades, hard. Then, as fast as the artist could, he backstroked at an angle to catch Fawkes at the neck.

The lord ducked.

Damn!

Sherwood was afraid Fawkes might take that moment of exposed chest to stab upward. That’s what he would’ve done, but Fawkes retreated three steps, bouncing on his feet.

That’s the difference between an exhibition fighter and a survivalist,
Sherwood thought.

Fawkes was going for points, trying to look good: engage, withdraw, reset, circle left, circle right, lunge again. It made for a pretty show, but on a lonely cliff with lives on the line, and only seagulls and grass for an audience, no one fought that way.

This might be Christopher Fawkes’s first real battle. That was Sherwood’s advantage.

He’s never done this. I have him.
But Sherwood had more than one voice in his head. The other one mused over how well Fawkes handled his blade.
He has a lot more experience,
He has held that sword as often as I’ve held a paintbrush. And his teachers were skilled swordsmen, not aging portrait artists.

But he’s never killed.
That reassuring rationalization was followed by a nagging thought.
First time for everything.

Another attack. This time Fawkes employed more finesse. He began with the same swing—and Sherwood saw now that he’d done it twice to set expectations—then he spun left and brought the sword blade up, hoping either to slice across Sherwood’s torso or—if he were really lucky—to catch the tip on his stomach and then thrust.

Sherwood foiled Fawkes’s plan by spinning to his right. This wasn’t skill. He had no idea Fawkes was trying something clever. Sherwood had merely decided that if he tried the same swing again, he’d catch it on the other side and try to get in behind the man. As it turned out, they outsmarted each other, and each bobbed away, trying to conceal the surprise and concern they felt.

“Impressive,” Fawkes said, selling a sense of confidence that Sherwood wasn’t buying.

Earlier he might have been intimidated, but he realized that Fawkes was mostly bluster and wasn’t actually very good. In that instant, he realized he’d won.

Believing you will be victorious,
Yardley used to say,
knowing it—not just in your head, but in your heart—is what will give you the ability to succeed. You lose the fear, and it’s the fear that kills you. Believe in yourself and you’ll triumph.

Sherwood knew now that he was better than Fawkes. More importantly, he could see the fear in the lord’s eyes.

Fawkes knew it, too.

To look at Lord Christopher Fawkes was to see a dead man.

Sherwood advanced this time. He held the sword more comfortably. He felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The two voices in his head went silent, and he found his balance. The wind was in his hair, gulls were crying, the surf crashed below, but Sherwood focused on Fawkes, who had his back to the cliff. He took a shuffled step forward and raised his swo—

Pain exploded across Sherwood’s back.

Every muscle in his body seized. His breathing stopped. His eyes went wide.

In front of him, Fawkes’s attention darted to something behind Sherwood, and His Lordship smiled. Not with sinister supremacy, but with relief.

The tension in Sherwood’s muscles disappeared along with every ounce of his strength. He crumpled to the grass, limp, as if every bone in his body had dissolved. He needed air but couldn’t breathe through the unbearable pain.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before footsteps approached.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Sheriff Knox said. “I got the crossbow you asked for. It’s huge, but it’s the only one I could find. I just wanted to see how well it worked.”

“Not at all,” Fawkes said. “That thing is—it’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it? Heavy as a boulder and not meant to be held while fired. Crossbows really aren’t my thing. I was aiming for dead center, and it should have killed him instantly. Little bugger is still wheezing.”

“Made an incredible hole,” Fawkes said, his voice catching in his throat. “Help me throw what’s left of him off the cliff.”

Sherwood couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as they dragged him. He wondered what it would be like to fall from such a height.

Will the impact kill me or will I drown?

As it turned out, it was neither. Sherwood Stow died while still en route to the edge.

Chapter Fifteen
The Painting

Christopher Fawkes was the empathetic sort. While he had a long list of enemies—an actual written list he kept in the lining of his doublet—he could generally find something about each person to respect or at least pity. This annoying predisposition toward understanding and compassion frequently robbed him of the unencumbered enjoyment of victory. A notable exception was the King of Maranon. Lord Fawkes was certain the only reason for King Vincent Pendergast’s existence was to give Christopher something to hate without reservation.

Vince the Vile—as Christopher referred to him in the safe confines of his own head—embodied everything bad in the world sewn up in one awful package. He was short, which was unforgivable for a monarch, and also ugly, which was unforgivable for anyone. He took after the Pendergast line, with a huge, hooked nose hanging off his face. His deep-set eyes hid beneath a ledge of bone so wide that a stick of chalk could rest there. He had gaps in his teeth, not just between the center two like any normal monstrosity, but between all of them.