The Eighth Warden Book 6
Copyright© 2024 by Ivy Veritas
Chapter 10
“Whiskey and an ale,” Razai told the bartender, giving her voice the squeak of a boy becoming a man. She was rather fond of the new disguise. It matched her own height, which meant people would actually make eye contact with her.
The man gave her a skeptical look. “You sure about that, boy?” he asked.
She slid the coins across the counter. “I’ll take the whiskey first.”
He snorted and shook his head, but poured the shot and slid it across the counter. She downed it in one gulp, needing something to take the edge off before she settled in for a longer drinking session.
Waiting for her ale, she turned to face the rest of the room. The little roadside tavern was nearly empty at this time of day. There was barely any village here, and the locals from the surrounding area would be busy with their work while it was still light out.
A drunkard was slumped over at the far end of the bar, and the only other patrons were three men sitting together at one table, nursing their drinks slowly. They huddled in quiet conversation, not the boisterous outbursts typical of a group drinking together.
They didn’t move like farmers or craftsmen. Their wary looks suggested soldiers or mercenaries, though they didn’t carry swords or any other obvious weapons. The closest thing she saw was a walking cudgel leaning against the table, though one man did have a curious bulge beneath his heavy coat. What were they up to? Their accents sounded local to her.
Taking her ale, she made her way to a small, empty table in the corner so she could keep an eye on them. As soon as she sat down, the oldest of the group stood and approached.
“Where are you from, boy?” he asked, taking a seat across from her.
“Saldar,” she said, naming a town southeast of Telfort. “And the name’s Ned, not boy.” She’d modeled this disguise after Nedley, but had given him red hair, freckles, and a Larsonian accent.
Her table-mate gave her a sharp look. She hadn’t bothered putting any deference in her voice the way a younger man might when speaking to his elders. Or the way a single man might when confronted by a larger group. If he wanted to cause trouble, she was in the mood to oblige.
“Saldar, eh?” he asked. “Headed to Telfort?” It was the only likely destination from here.
“I sure am,” she said, allowing a hint of excitement in her tone. “Royal messengers posted a call for soldiers back home, and Da’s been after me to get out on my own. I figured I’d join up.” That was the story she intended to use once she reached Telfort, at least until she got the opportunity to take someone else’s identity.
A flash of concern crossed the man’s face and he glanced back at his friends, who were watching the exchange in silence. They shrugged in response, and he turned back to her.
“Listen, kid,” he said. “Do yourself a favor and head back the way you came. You don’t want to be in Telfort right now. Too much killing going on, and no way to know who you can trust. Go home. You’ll thank me for it later.”
He wasn’t looking for a fight. He was trying to protect her. That was such an unexpected thought, she didn’t respond right away.
She’d heard different rumors about the fighting in Telfort. Some people thought a group of mages had attacked the knights, while others believed the king’s forces and the knights had done battle with each other. A few had suggested that mages and knights had banded together against the king. One fellow claimed Duke Westport had conquered the kingdom in a coup and that nobody had seen Rusol in weeks.
The most likely scenario was that the knights from Hightower had encountered Rusol’s bondmates, but how were these fellows involved? They didn’t act like knights.
The door suddenly swung open, slamming against the wall, and a squad of soldiers trooped in. They wore uniforms, but the markings suggested they worked for one of the noble families rather than the army itself.
“By order of the king, we’re looking for traitors who deserted from Telfort!” the officer in front announced. He glanced toward the bartender. “Are these them?” he asked, indicating the two at the other table.
The bartender nodded.
“You told me there were three,” the officer said.
“Over there,” the bartender said, jutting his chin out toward Razai’s table.
The man sitting with her growled. “Bloody hell, Donal!” he said. “Stabbing us in the back?”
“Don’t blame me, Cuhlen!” the bartender protested. “I told you I didn’t want any trouble!”
The three deserters had tensed, but hadn’t risked standing up. Whatever weapons they had, they wouldn’t be able to get them out in time to do any good against an entire patrol.
The officer stopped behind Razai and clamped his hand down hard on her shoulder. “What about you, boy? Did you leave your post, too?”
“Get your hand off me,” she said, her voice cold. Cuhlen gave her a subtle shake of the head, but she ignored him.
“What’s that, boy?” the officer said, gripping tighter. “I didn’t hear you.”
Her next course of action seemed obvious. The deserters may not have known who she truly was, but they’d tried to protect the person she appeared to be. She owed them a debt.
Besides, she really didn’t like being touched.
She grabbed the officer’s fingers and forced them back, snapping the delicate bones. He shouted in pain while she spun out of her seat, grasping him by the neck and lifting him up off his feet to slam his head back against the wall. She threw the body against the two nearest soldiers, knocking them over, then leapt at them, drawing her curved knives from beneath her illusionary disguise.
With her actions as a signal, Cuhlen and his friends joined the fray, though Razai couldn’t spare them any attention as she tangled with her two targets. While they were wearing armor, her blades found purchase in their necks and legs. Another soldier tried to pull her off of them and she stabbed up into his groin. He fell back, clutching at his manhood, but he should have been more worried about the blood loss that would kill him before anyone could send for help.
With no other opponents coming her way, she stood and took in the room. The deserters had forced the last three soldiers down to their knees. Cuhlen now held the walking cudgel that had been leaning against the table, while a second man carried another which Razai hadn’t even noticed. The bulge under the third man’s coat turned out to have been a long knife.
She started their way, clutching her own blood-stained weapons, but Cuhlen held up his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “We don’t have to kill them.” He turned to face the soldiers. “We’re not the traitors. It was the king who betrayed the Church.”
“Say what you want, traitor,” one said. “We know the truth.”
But the second man in the row grimaced. He had some idea about what had actually happened. The third man wasn’t paying any attention to the conversation. He’d gone green in the face, staring at the bodies of the four soldiers Razai had killed.
“We’ll take their boots, their weapons, and their horses,” Cuhlen told his friends. “They won’t be able to follow us.” He turned to the bartender. “And as for you...”
The bartender flinched. “What’d you expect me to do? They already knew you’d been coming around!”
“You could have warned us! If our mums weren’t friends, I’d leave you on the floor with the rest of them.”
Razai growled, eyeing the man behind the bar. “He’s not my friend,” she said.
The bartender’s eyes darted around fearfully, but this small place didn’t have a back door, and she was blocking the only exit.
“Please don’t kill him,” the soldier told her. “I don’t want to listen to the lecture I’d get.” He glanced at the pile of bodies. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that before, boy. Ned.”
She ignored the implied question. “If you’re loyal to the Church, the lords of the Black Crows declared against the king. The Knights of Pallisur have joined them.”
He shook his head. “The knights are dead,” he said. “I saw it happen.”
“The knights in Telfort, maybe, but the rest are gathering in the mountains. You’ll find safe haven there.” She wouldn’t tell him about Corec. If Cuhlen and his friends were faithful followers of Pallisur, they wouldn’t be happy about allying with mages, but once they’d gone as far as Tarwen Valley, they’d be unlikely to turn back.
The soldier nodded. “You should come with us,” he said. “They’ll be looking for you now, too.”
“They’ll never find me, and if they do, I’ll kill them,” she said, eyeing the survivors. “Besides, I’ve got a job to do in Telfort.”
Rusol stared at the two letters arranged side-by-side on his desk. One from Yassi containing an offer of peace from Corec Tarwen, the other a declaration of war from Corec’s father.
The peace offer had arrived first, but it was dated more recently. Yassi had sent it after Ansel declared war. Did that mean Corec had broken ranks with his father? It made sense that a warden might side with another warden if it meant the Church would lose power, but then again, the whole thing might be a ruse meant to trick Rusol into trusting an enemy.
He was blinded without Yassi to See for him, yet he couldn’t deny the elation he’d felt upon hearing from her after so long. And she was still looking out for his interests. Did she regret leaving? If Corec’s offer of peace was true, would it convince her to return?
Rusol pushed his hopes aside and forced himself to think logically. Even if the peace offer wasn’t a bluff, he had no easy way to communicate with Corec. Yassi’s letter was dated just one day before it had arrived—brought by a Zidari Traveler, no doubt—but if Rusol wanted to accept the offer, he’d have to send his own message by horseback. He would need more than vague hopes to justify that. For now he was still at war with the man. And also with the Black Crows, the Church, and some of his own soldiers.
The ambush against the Hightower knights had gone about as well as it could have. The thousand soldiers of the capital brigade had managed to defeat the hundred or so knights, though not without heavy losses. Most of the knights had fought to the death, and three more had died of their injuries since.
The remaining injured, plus a handful who’d surrendered, had been imprisoned. Rusol hadn’t decided yet what to do with them. They’d admitted that Corec, or rather one of his companions, had freed the compelled knights who’d accompanied the mercenary army. It was Corec who’d set the knights against Rusol, yet that had happened before Corec had sent his offer of peace. It was a puzzle Rusol couldn’t figure out. There had to be some vital clue he was missing.