Shadows son s-1 Page 12

  Every man wore the golden sunburst of the Sacred Brotherhood.

  The lead watchman thrust Josey into the circle of light. Tears ran freely down her face as cruel gazes raked her body. Why was this happening to her? Wasn't it enough that she had lost her father? Must she also be molested by these brigands? She knew what these men lusted after, and knew she was powerless to fight so many of them. She looked around, hoping to spot some passerby, someone who would hear her screams, but they were alone. Her stomach twisted into knots as she realized she should have listened to her father's killer.

  A tall man shouldered his way through the crowd. Josey sobbed as a familiar face appeared.

  "Markus!"

  She tried to go to him, but rough hands threw her down on the pier's hard boards. Josey stared up at Markus, her lips parted in a silent appeal. Spots of blood showed on the bandage wrapped around his neck. One look into his eyes told her that she would find no succor with him. Suddenly, she was terrified for Anastasia.

  Markus ignored her. "Where did you find her?" His voice was low and coarse, like grinding millstones.

  "Three Corners." The westerner grinned at Josey in a way that made her insides tremble. "She ran right into our arms."

  "Anyone follow you?"

  "Nah. The streets were empty. What'll we do with her?"

  Markus pulled a sloshing green bottle from inside his coat and thrust it at the watchman. "Go take a walk and forget you saw her."

  "Wait!" Josey wailed, but the watchmen marched off without giving her a second glance.

  Once they were gone from sight, Markus signaled to the others. "Get rid of her. No mistakes."

  Josey bit her lip. A scream fluttered in her throat, but her mouth refused to work. Her fingernails scrabbled across the wooden spars.

  A broad-chested Brother with a shaggy red beard stepped forward. "Hell, we can't waste a cunny like that! I'll have a crack at that before we finish her off."

  A raucous chorus of chuckles greeted the pronouncement. Josey backed away as Red Beard reached for the ties to his baggy breeches. A wall of sturdy legs halted her retreat. She shut her eyes and prayed harder than she'd ever prayed before, for deliverance from this horrible night, for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, even for death before she must succumb to this nightmare.

  Markus produced a coil of rope and tossed it on the ground. "No messing around. Just kill her and get it done with. She'll wash out with the tide."

  The men grumbled, especially Red Beard, but they grabbed Josey and set to binding her arms and legs. A rusty iron weight was produced and secured to her ankle. The men carried her down the short dock. One of her bearers took the opportunity to knead her buttocks. Josey's sobs had grown to near convulsions, but the waves crashing against the pilings drowned out her mews. She tried to kick and only succeeded in making them laugh.

  "Be quick about it," Markus rasped. "And slit her throat before you dump her off the end."

  "Let me do it," a skinny Brother said. His ropy lips turned up in a grin as he pulled a long dirk from his belt.

  They put her down on the weather-worn boards, and someone yanked back her head. Josey lifted her eyes. Stars sparkled overhead, blurred by her tears. She panted in terror. This can't be happening.! But it was. She was going to die.

  Josey braced herself for the touch of the steel. The waiting seemed to last for ages. Then, something warm spattered the side of her face. The hands holding her let go. Boots pounded on the pier. She lifted her bound hands to wipe away the wetness. Three Sacred Brothers sprawled on the slats, bleeding out their wretched lives. The rest watched the night with their swords out.

  Caim!

  She knew right away it was him. Her suspicion was proved correct when Red Beard fell at her feet with his throat sliced open. A sliver of bloody steel flashed in the dark and was gone, only to reappear on the other side of the melee to drink again.

  Josey struggled with her bonds. If she could get free while they fought, she might be able to slip away in the confusion. Her gaze fell on the slim dagger sheathed on Red Beard's belt. She scooted over to his corpse. Suppressing her revulsion, she caught hold of the leather-wrapped hilt and tugged the knife free, then began sawing at the thick rope that bound her wrists. Strand by strand the rope parted. Though the blade was sharp, her range of movement was limited and she had to hold the knife at an awkward angle. Josey sobbed with relief when the last piece gave way; she went to work on the loops binding her ankles.

  The fighting continued around her and more men died. Caim was out there, killing to save her. For the second time, if he'd told the truth. Josey's head spun. She ought to be terrified out of her mind as the man who had killed her father, or would have killed him, battled her present captors. And yet, she was calm. Something had changed within her. The darkness didn't frighten her as before. She brushed the thoughts away. Caim was an admitted killer. Why would he care to keep her alive? He must know she would go straight to the authorities, the proper authorities, as soon as she was free. He had to have an ulterior motive, some secret he was keeping from her.

  She almost cut her leg as the dagger slipped and sliced her nightgown. She concentrated on severing the rope's last fibers. Once free, she scrambled to her feet. Her escape from the pier was blocked by the melee. From what she could see, only Markus and a handful of his men remained, but it would only take one to notice her and finish the job.

  As Josey took tentative steps toward the edge of the combat, a shadow emerged from the dark. It swept past the swarm of men, evaded their attacks, and raced down the wharf on whisper-quiet steps. Hard gray eyes peered from the depths of a deep hood. Josey was relieved in a way she'd never thought she would be. Caim grabbed her around the waist as he ran by and snatched her off her feet.

  "Wha-!"

  He leapt.

  For one marvelous moment they were airborne. The bay breeze swept up her hair in its cool fingers as she floated in the night sky. She clutched Caim about the shoulders, and let her fingers roam over the play of powerful muscles beneath his black shirt.

  The steely twang of a bowstring broke the spell. Josey felt the impact as Caim jerked like a giant fist had punched him in the back. The force of the blow knocked their trajectory askew. Instead of a graceful landing, they hit the dark waters like two falling stones.

  The impact knocked the breath from Josey's lungs. She gasped, and icy seawater flooded her lungs as their combined weight pulled them under the surface. She struggled against Calm's grip, but his arm remained locked around her waist.

  Her limbs grew heavy; her thrashing slowed. She screamed out her last precious bubbles of air as the choking abyss closed around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  aim collapsed at the water's edge, unable to crawl another foot. Every movement sent spasms of red-hot agony racing through him. The frigid bay waters had leeched away the last of his strength and left him a shivering mass of exhaustion.

  Echoes of lapping water reverberated off stone walls, barely discernable in the darkness. After hitting the water, he had managed to find one of the submerged sewer pipes that carried effluvia into the bay. An iron grate had once barred the entry, but it'd rusted away long ago-a convenient access into the city he'd discovered a few years back while prepping for a job.

  He took a deep breath and regretted it as a tremor of pain wracked his body. He hadn't heard the crossbow fire, but the bolt's impact had almost been enough to kill him outright. He managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to swim down deep into the inky waters, away from their enemies. No one had followed them. No surprise there. Whoever shot him must have thought it was a killing blow. Unfortunately, time might bear out that assumption. He'd lost a lot of blood. He could tell by the way his hands shook when he tried to pull himself out of the water that he wouldn't survive long without a chirurgeon, but he wasn't likely to find one down here. Even if he could walk, it wouldn't be safe. He knew a couple of cut-men who would treat an injury like this with no qu
estions asked, but they might be compromised. Whoever was behind this fiasco had proven to be both intelligent and savvy.

  A weak groan murmured behind him. Caim pulled himself over to the girl. She lay half in the water, facedown. He rolled her over despite the agony it caused him. Her nightgown was a tattered mess, stained with blood, mud, and worse. The wet silk clung to her body like a second skin. Yet she had the heart of a lion. She hadn't screamed while he fought her captors or cowered at the sight of blood. Instead, she'd gotten hold of a knife and cut herself free.

  The girl's teeth chattered between blue lips. The pipe was freezing, but Caim didn't have anything to make a fire. This is where I'll die. He had been dealing in death for so long it held little mystery for him. He would close his eyes and drift away to the sound of the water. It was probably a better end than he deserved. With one hand on the girl's stomach, he listened to her breathe. She would live, at least. For some reason that made him feel better.

  A voice intruded on his solace. He smiled as Kit descended through the ceiling. The violet glow of her tight smock illuminated the tunnel, showing ancient walls caked with mud and lichen. The grime of the sewer didn't touch her. Caim had often wished he could fly like her, just take off and leave the world behind. He could never understand why she hung around with him when she could be soaring among the clouds. Kit said it was because he needed her, that without her he would get into all sorts of trouble. It seemed she was right yet again.

  "Caim, what have you done to yourself?" Kit asked in a choked voice as she alighted beside him. Strangely, she seemed more concerned about his foot, which throbbed on the periphery of his awareness.

  Before he attacked the Sacred Brothers holding the girl, he had told Kit to keep an eye out for trouble, but she had flown off in a huff. That was Kit, always marching to the rhythm of her own song. She hadn't changed a dram in all the time he'd known her. His whole life. Now she would watch him die. The thought made him laugh, which turned into an excruciating grunt.

  "I had a little help." His throat was dry and cracked. That struck him as funny with all the water lying around him, but he refrained from laughing. He put on a brave face for her. "It's not that bad."

  "Yes, it is. We need to get you to a barber."

  He ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair. "You think I need a trim?"

  "Don't play games, Caim. This is serious."

  "It'll all be over soon. We had a good run, Kit. No one can say we didn't."

  She tsked at him. "It's not over yet."

  "You going to carry me out of here, Kit? That would be something to see."

  She turned to the girl. "She's stirring."

  This time Caim couldn't hold back his laugh, but it came out in a hissing cough as coppery bile bubbled in the back of his throat. "You think she's going to help me, Kit? She couldn't weigh more than seven stone soaking wet. Even if she could, why would she? I'm the bad guy. Just let me be."

  With a sigh, Kit rested her head against his chest. Soft sounds echoed in his ears-either sobs or chuckles, he couldn't tell which. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open. He closed them knowing they would never open again. The sweet escape of oblivion beckoned.

  "So long, darling," he murmured as he drifted away.

  Josey dreamed she was lounging up to her chin in a giant, warm raspberry pie floating in the midst of a gorgeous, starry sky. Surrounded by gelatinous filling, she watched the twinkling stars streak by. A feeling of utter tranquility filled her. All was well.

  Opening her eyes was like a slap in the face. She lay on a slanted plane of cold, coarse stone. Her legs floated not in warm sugary goodness, but in foul, frigid water that lapped at her thighs like a gaggle of icy tongues. Wherever she was, it stank worse than anything she'd ever smelled before, a combination of garbage and night soil and blood. Every breath made her want to throw up.

  With shaking hands, Josey pulled herself out of the water. Her whole body felt like one massive bruise. The last thing she remembered was being knocked off the pier and the black water swirling over her head. She must have washed up here, wherever this was. No sky stretched over her head. There was a breeze of sorts, but it was fetid and moist. Perhaps she had floated into an old cistern. No, not a cistern. By the smell, she was in some section of the sewers. The urge to retch came over her again.

  Josey clamped her lips tight against the nausea and tried to crawl farther, but froze as a groan echoed beside her. Wild fancies of trolds and hobgobs flashed through her mind. Was she still dreaming? Water dripped in the distance, making her want to use the privy. She almost laughed. She was in a gigantic water closet. A little more urine wouldn't hurt the smell, but a lady didn't answer the call of nature out in the open.

  She crawled until she was out of the water entirely. The groan rose again before drifting away. It was nearby. Josey sat up on her knees, trying not to think of the damage to her nightgown. She had a dozen of them at home. She would burn this one as soon as she escaped from this horrid place. Whatever was making the noise, it didn't sound dangerous. It reminded her of a wounded animal, like a squirrel, but bigger. A big rat. She started to shy away until a raspy cough echoed around her.

  It's him.

  Josey had almost forgotten the reason she was still alive and breathing. Her father's killer was here with her, and by the sounds he'd suffered for his efforts to save her. He sounded sick.

  "Hello?" she whispered.

  Her only answer was another wet cough. Inhaling through her mouth, Josey crawled in the direction of the sound. She found him slumped against a damp wall. He, too, was drenched in foul water and chilled to the touch. She thought he was dead until he coughed again and his chest moved beneath her hands. She searched him with timid hands and found a patch of warm wetness on his right side, a gaping hole plugged with a wooden shaft as thick as her thumb, right beneath his ribs. He mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out. She leaned closer.

  "Go."

  Josey sat back on her heels. Her first impulse was to follow his advice and leave, but to where? She couldn't go to the authorities. That much was clear. And now that her father was gone, she had no family. Friends? She had only one true friend in Othir, Anastasia, but as much as she loved the girl, Josey didn't believe 'Stasia could help her. For one thing, her father was elderly and infirm, and he hadn't been active in politics for a long time. Also, Josey didn't want to drag her friend into this nightmare.

  She considered the man lying before her. She could leave him here to die. It was no better than he deserved. He had probably murdered a lot of people-people with families and friends who cared about them. He was the most despicable sort of man, one who killed for money. He had no honor, no couth, a sore on the flesh of humanity. Yet he had saved her life. Twice. And he claimed he hadn't killed her father, though he would have if someone else hadn't done it first. If that was true, then whoever really killed her father had escaped free and clear, and this assassin dying at her feet might be the only one who could find out who did it and why.

  Josey made up her mind. She had to save him, tend to him until he was strong enough to protect her again. But how? She was a good swimmer, but she didn't think she could pull him through the water back to the pier. What if those men were waiting? No, she couldn't go back. That left only one direction. She stared into the darkness of the tunnel. Far in the distance a tiny light flashed, like the brief burst of a firefly, but it was enough to show her the way. What was it? Some fearsome creature of the deeps or an angel sent from Heaven? Either way, she was out of choices.

  Josey stood up and hooked her arms under the assassin's armpits. She tugged as gently as she could until he rested flat on the ground. Then, she pulled. Her feet slipped on the slimy floor of the pipe and her muscles complained of the unaccustomed exertion, but she kept pulling toward the distant light.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Raging flames painted the night sky in hues of orange and gold, and threw shadows across the yard of the vi
lla where the tall bodies sprawled.

  "We have to go," Kit whispered at his back.

  Caim wanted to turn away, but his feet were stuck fast to the ground. Men in black armor gathered in the yard. Their angry words echoed through the compound. His father knelt at their feet, a proud man, with a sword's pommel jutting from his chest like the mast of a sinking ship.

  A wail pierced the silent night. Calm's stomach ached like someone had punched him as his mother burst from the burning house, into the arms of the waiting soldiers. He wanted to run to her, to save her, but he could do nothing as the dark men dragged her away, into the fields and the great forest beyond, vanishing like a pack of ghosts.

  Then, the paralysis dropped away from him and he slipped through the fence, ignoring the call behind him. He darted across the yard, avoiding the bodies of the dead armsmen strewn across the ground like fallen toy soldiers. He stopped at the center.

  His father had been such a big figure in his life, like a hero from out of the tales. In death, he looked smaller, as if that which had made him so large had leaked away with the river of red-black blood running from the gash in his chest.

  "I'll kill them," Caim said between sobs. "Every one of them."

  A tremor ran through him as the corpse opened its eyes, and a whisper issued from its blue-tinged lips.

  "My son… my son." ulsing light dredged Caim from the dark tides of oblivion. His first thoughts were muddled, but one realization struck him immediately.

  He was alive.

  He didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He had been prepared for death, ready to face whatever afterlife awaited him, or for nothing at all. In his travels he had encountered many beliefs, from the ancestor worshippers of Illmyn to the rigid monotheism espoused by the True Church. All prescribed damnation in one form or another for those who killed their fellow men. Whether to spend eternity in Death's gloomladen underworld or wander the fathomless ethers between the stars forever, he had accepted his fate long ago.