Will Power (4 page)

He dodged my boot, like someone avoiding a wasp, and stepped back. This was no retreat, however, but a way of better picking his striking spot. His spear was poised in his right hand, pulled back and ready to plunge into me with full force as I sat there with no weapon or armor to protect me.

With a cry of aggression, the product of a dubious marriage between horror and bravado, I flung myself on him, falling from the saddle and sending him sprawling backward. The spear clattered to the ground. Rather than trying to recover so unwieldy a weapon, he dragged his shortsword from its sheath. I was virtually straddling him, my right hand holding his left from my face, my left fumbling for his sword hand. I grabbed it, but his arm was strong. A dark smile spread across his face. He hissed through his teeth and his blue eyes lit with triumph. The weapon was almost completely under his control, and I felt its blade pressing below my rib cage. He pushed upward, and I struggled to hold it down. His strength was too much for me. His hands came on, one reaching for my eyes, the other pushing the shortsword into my thorax.

With a sudden shift of my lower body I put a knee to his stomach, and, as he gasped for air, rolled off and seized the fallen spear. By the time I had turned on him again, he was up and ready, the sword extended and his body hunched over and balanced, feet apart. He was a big man. I, by contrast, was not as athletic as an eighteen-year-old probably should be, wiry of limbs and a touch overfed about the middle. Still, I gripped the spear with both hands as Orgos had shown me, and, nervously, held my ground. At my back, the other troopers were hurrying toward us and the soldier who had fallen in front of our horse was getting to his feet.

My adversary cut at me, testingly, and I parried neatly, turning my left shoulder toward him and throwing my weight onto my right leg as I’d been taught. A flicker of a smile crossed his angular features, as if the fact that I was less incompetent than I had looked would actually make his inevitable victory more entertaining. He launched a feint
attack, pulling back and actually chuckling as my block and lunge whistled through empty air. The footsteps behind us were getting closer. This was not the time to play for a draw.

I stabbed at him, extending my left leg, keeping my right planted and then, as he parried and cut, pulled back to my original position. Textbook. He grinned. I lunged short and, as I recovered, set my body weight squarely over my front foot, throwing my balance off in ways I could only hold for a couple of seconds. He had parried my attack easily and was looking smug, overconfident. I sprang forward, landing on my right foot and lunging as far as I could reach.

The speed and aggression of the flèche attack caught him off guard, and by the time he saw it, it was too late. The spear tip punched through the starched white linen of his cuirass just below the shoulder and a spot of crimson blossomed and spread. His eyes rolled back and he sank to the cobbled road, holding his wound.

“Will!” called Mithos, from the saddle. I turned and found the others were almost upon us. Though Mithos had dealt one of the original troopers a cut across the shoulder blade, which had been enough to take him out of the struggle, the other was now trading blows with him, clearly reluctant to get too close till his fellows from the other end of the street were on hand. This was our chance.

Once again, I took Mithos’s powerful hand and was hoisted into the saddle. As I warded off the remaining soldier with the spear, our steed shuddered into motion. Behind us, the remaining soldiers, realizing they could not hope to catch us on foot, threw their spears in an erratic volley. One whistled over my head and clattered on the road ahead, another sparked against the stone wall to my right and fell to earth.

Three more turns, seven or eight blocks traveled, and no sign of the enemy. Our mount, however, was struggling. One of the flung spears had caught her hindquarters and the weapon’s point had torn a hole in the tissue of one thigh. It was a minor wound, but it was bleeding heavily and giving the animal a lot of pain. She wouldn’t run much further. Two more blocks and her canter became erratic as she tried to favor her other legs. Then, even this became too much for her and she stuttered to a halt.

Mithos glanced at the wound, slid to his feet without a word, and began to run. I followed, amazed we’d held off death this long, but still fully expecting to begin our Kingdom of the Damned tour within the next ten minutes or so. Unless they caught us and took us back for
Lengthy Torture and Languid Execution, in which case the tour might start later.

What we saw on rounding the next corner suggested that ten minutes had been optimistic. This road marked the northernmost reaches of the city and, while the town lacked the fortifications of Cresdon or Ironwall, there were sentries at every exit. Stavis, you’ll recall, is an isolated bit of Empire territory connected to its lands in the West by little more than a road across the Hrof wastes. But except for that ribbon of paving across the desert, everything around the city was neutral territory. What that all added up to was that we were about twenty yards from never seeing another Empire soldier again, but from what I could see it may as well have been fifty miles.

There were soldiers everywhere. Lisha and the others may have been long gone, but we had lost several minutes in our earlier wanderings and news of the events at the Waterman had reached the city guards. A great throng of people had spilled out of the adjoining houses and inns to watch the inevitable capture of the notorious rebels as they attempted to leave. If this wasn’t bad enough, the remainder of the guards who had pursued us would be here in moments, complete with even fuller descriptions of the escapees, their probable locations, and some colorful suggestions for what to do with them. Down the street was a stone tower, four stories high and topped with a white flag with a diamond motif: inside it would be soldiers. For once, Mithos’s instinct matched my own. He found the first open tavern door—an inn called the Fisherman’s Arms—and made for the bar.

The place was buzzing with anticipation and, since everyone was clustering around the door and windows, we had no trouble getting served.

“Two pints of bitter, please, mate,” I said to a barman as he looked over my shoulder to see what was going on outside. “And close the door, will ya? It’s spoiling the fire.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mithos growled with a disbelieving stare.

“I’m ordering a couple of . . . you know. I thought you wanted . . .”

“We came in here to get out of the street and to think, that’s all.”

“Well, since I’ve ordered them, we’ll just drink up and be on our way, eh?” I ventured.

Mithos sighed and closed his eyes tightly, his brow creasing with intense concentration. I turned to see a face I recognized entering by
the same door we had. He was a tall man in his late fifties, clad in a suit of black, his hair and beard an even silver, carefully trimmed. His eyes met mine blankly and he stepped on toward the bar.

“Mithos,” I whispered, turning away and utterly failing to look casual.

“Quiet, Will,” muttered Mithos, “I’m trying to think.”

“Yes,” I agreed hastily, “but a man has just come in who was in the Waterman.”

“What?”

“He was at the bar when we were eating. I think he has seen us.” I glanced around with a nonchalance I did not feel. “Yes. He’s coming over.”

And in seconds he was there, standing beside us and politely asking the barman for a drop of claret. Then, as the barman walked away, he spoke without turning to face us. His voice was smooth, refined even, and was touched with a smile I did not like. It spoke of dry, distanced amusement. Cold.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “you’ve had quite an evening.”

“I’m sorry?” said Mithos.

“No need to disguise it,” he replied, “and certainly no point. You have led Lightfoot and his men in quite a merry dance, though it seems you are, shall I say,
tiring.”

That last word was spoken with an ominous emphasis that had floated behind the slightly amused tone of his other words.

“Who the hell are you?” I muttered, turning on him and caring nothing for Mithos’s irritated sigh. He knew who we were well enough, so why pretend?

“My name is Dantir, rebel hero,” he said, turning to face me. Then a joyless smile cracked his face and he added: “Just joking. Sorry. I am Linassi of . . .”

“Why the hell would I care . . .” I began, rankled by his composure and confidence.

“Excuse me,” he replied with a calming gesture. “Perhaps I should have made myself clearer. I am
Ambassador
Linassi and I have a coach outside.”

This was clearly supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t, but that was a feeling I was used to. Mithos looked up and met Linassi’s eyes for the first time. Apparently, something was going on here that I knew nothing about.

“And you have? . . .” began Mithos.

“Full diplomatic immunity, yes,” answered the stranger, gazing emptily across the bar. “My driver is waiting in the yard. I suggest we move quickly.”

“What?” I asked, looking from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Will,” said Mithos, taking a hurried swill of beer and getting to his feet. “Just follow the ambassador.”

“He could be anyone,” I spluttered, ignoring the fact that the man was standing beside me.

“My papers,” he said, plucking a wad of parchment from inside his jacket. “You can examine them as we go.”

Out in the street, the sounds of the curious crowds dwindled significantly. A glance toward the open door told me why. The unit from the Waterman had regrouped and were mingling with the sentries.

“It looks like the decision has been made for you,” said the ambassador, if that was what he was.

Mithos nodded solemnly, returned his papers, and indicated that he should lead the way. The older man inclined his head gravely and, without another word, led us in a series of long strides across the room.

I say “us,” but, for most of those strides it would be truer to say “Mithos,” because I stayed where I was, considering the odds of just losing myself in the crowds and finding a way out when things had died down. Then the crowd at the door parted and I caught a glimpse of white and silver. I didn’t know if the guards were coming to search the place, or if they were just looking for refreshment, but I couldn’t wait around to find out. So with eyes down and one hand rubbing my face in as obfuscating a manner as I could manage short of putting a bag on my head, I half-ran in pursuit of Mithos.

A door by the hearth gave way to a narrow passage smelling of damp and animals and leading to the stableyard, where, beside a wagon piled high with crates, sat a single coach. It was black as pitch, painted over with a highly polished lacquer, and trimmed with delicate ropes of gold. A crest hung on the side doors, featuring a dragon and a lamb on an azure shield.

“Pretty flash,” I muttered to no one in particular, which was just as well since it was universally ignored.

A man in a dark and heavy overcoat who had been standing close to the coach knocked his pipe out against the wall and climbed up the
stoop. Picking up his lash, he began cautiously walking the horses, all white geldings, until the coach was in the middle of the yard and ready to go. He leaned over the side and flipped a latch deftly with the butt of his whip. The carriage door swung open and Ambassador Linassi, with a small and wordless gesture, indicated that we should get aboard.

I glanced uneasily at Mithos, far from comfortable at the prospect of taking a spin in this glorified hearse with its questionable ambassador and his taciturn driver. Mithos’s eyes said nothing and he climbed in, sitting himself comfortably on the red velvet seats inside. I followed, gingerly, and perched on the opposite seat, facing him and looking for assurance. The ambassador sat beside him, and his sharp, blue eyes met mine for a brief, blank instant, before he pulled the door shut behind him and rapped on the roof. As soon as we began to roll off, he stretched across toward me. I, with a start of panic, recoiled.

“Relax, Mr. Hawthorne,” he said, his voice as smooth as before but touched with that same gentle amusement, “you are quite safe in here. For now.”

Then he continued to lean across and, with a sudden tug on a cord, pulled down the window shade. He did the same on the other side and we were plunged into absolute darkness. Only several minutes later did my eyes seem to adjust, and even then I could make out little beyond shadows.

The coach rattled out of the inn yard and onto the road.

“She gives a very smooth ride, does she not?” said the ambassador suddenly, his voice unwinding in the darkness like an unseen cobra.

“Very good,” I stammered, rather louder than I had intended, and was struck by the curious sense that I was alone in there, that I was talking to myself. Many moments passed before the ambassador added, “Steel sprung suspension. Nothing finer.”

I felt obliged to say something but could not think of the words. I found myself nodding agreement to the darkness and then, as the silence extended itself, I abandoned speech altogether, focusing instead on my own anxieties, all of which seemed to be amplified by being in this curtained box, this cave, this pit of darkness on wheels. Still, it was likely to be a short journey, even if it was into the arms of the Empire’s leading torturer. How bad could things get?

“Papers,” said an imperious voice outside, perhaps only a foot and a half from my head. With sudden insight I realized that things could get pretty bad.

Something touched my knee and I jumped, striking my head on the roof. Then it came again, more insistent this time. Putting out my hand, I found myself holding the ambassador’s documents. Barely daring to breathe, I pushed them through the crack in the window blind, leaning back in my seat to avoid being seen. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of steel helms plumed with white. Then the papers were snatched from my grasp by the invisible sentry and I flinched again.

“You have got to be joking,” growled the unseen soldier, inches from my right ear. I sat very still, muscles tight and bowels clenched.