Blades Of Magic: Crown Service #1 (12 page)

“There’s no point in rinsing myself of blood if I’m going to get drenched in it anyway.”

He gulped and nodded.

“But first I’ll take care of my weapon,” she said as she moved the sword that rested like an extension of her arm. Grabbing a cloth from a work bench she came to the bucket and wiped it down with some water. Making sure no trace of her opponents rested on the blade or hilt, she sheathed the sword.

Then she grabbed the legless torso with a grunt. Heading out the door, she said, “Don’t think me using that water gets you off the hook for refilling that barrel,” she said.

“Of course not!”

She heard the guilt in his voice.

Coming out to the cliff overlooking the sea, Sara halted for a moment. She took stock of her senses and her surroundings. The smell of blood rose in her nose, the heaviness of the corpse in her arms made them cramp, and the stiff sea air blew across her face, which stung from cuts she’d endured in the fight. With a grunt, she threw the torso over the cliff wall. “So long.”

Then she did it again and again and again, until every piece and body part had been removed from the warehouse.

When she came back inside, she saw a pale-faced Ezekiel scrubbing the blood off of the floor.

She stopped and said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He avoided her eyes. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can eat.”

A practical man. She liked that.

Without another word, Sara got down on the floor alongside him and scrubbed.

By the time they finished, her hands felt cramped and she could tell with a glance that Ezekiel’s soft skin had been rubbed raw.

“Help me dump it,” she said as she walked over to their water barrel. “We’ll go together to the well and refill it in the morning.”

He nodded as he came over.

She glanced into the barrel and quickly away. The stew of dirty water, blood, and bits of body parts reminded her too much of what she had just done. She didn’t regret killing those men; after all, they would have killed her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be reminded of it.

With a grunt, she and Ezekiel hoisted the barrel up and placed it on the wheeled mover’s cart that rested nearby. Both of their hands guiding it, they walked the barrel outside.

When they came back in, she tucked into her fish stew with gusto. Ezekiel was more hesitant but even he dug in when his stomach growled loudly enough for her to raise an eyebrow.

“So what was it this time?” he asked as he finished.

“This time?”

“The thieves—what did they want?”

“They didn’t say,” she said shortly. “But I know this—Cormar owes me double for what I’ve been put through in just one day.”

He snorted. “Good luck in getting it out of him.”

“Well, he did say you were in charge of payment.”

He shook his head wryly. “He’d kill me the moment he learned I gave you one shilling more than he said.”

Cormar will probably kill you anyway
, she thought silently.
The man doesn’t have the greatest respect for anyone and particularly dislikes you. Besides, no matter how useful you are, psychopaths like that don’t tend to be reasonable.

The thought unsettled her. But Ezekiel was a grown man. One who could make his own decisions. He’d gotten himself into this contract with Cormar and he could get himself out.

“So how about some cards?” Ezekiel said as he sat back.

She stood up abruptly. The feeling of camaraderie the gesture exhibited was too much. Even if she wanted to accept his offer, she had a rule: Don’t become friends with dead men walking.

“Or, you know, we could do dice.”

She sighed in irritation. “Neither. Let’s just unpack the artifacts and call it a night.”

“Whatever you say,” she heard Ezekiel murmur as he went to put the plates by the door.

She took the bloody lids from the crate outside.

As she hauled them out the door, she said, “I’m going to split this. You can use it for firewood later.”

Ezekiel nodded stiffly as he walked to the first crate. There was brain matter splattered on the side, but she didn’t think he noticed. He was probably consumed with his precious new finds.

Sara went outside, picked up an axe she had noticed lodged in a tree stump earlier, and took out her lingering battle rage on the wood. At least that’s what she told herself. She refused to think that one of the dozen feelings rioting through her might be hope. Hope that she had found a friend, a new ally. Hope that she wasn’t alone anymore with her back against the wall. But she knew that hope was futile.

As she wiped the sweat from her brow in the cool night air and took another swing at the wooden planks, she thought,
Hope didn’t help me when my father disappeared for four days and no one knew anything. Hope didn’t help me when they knocked on our door and said he was arrested for desertion. Hope certainly didn’t help me when everyone I knew spit in my eye the moment they learned the truth of my father’s actions.

By the time she was done her fingers were sore, her hands stiff, and her mind was clear. She felt better. Talking things out had never done much for her, even as a kid. But she’d always been able to out run and out fight her emotions. It was the only way she knew how. Running hadn’t been an option this time, but smashing some wood to smithereens had.

Standing straight, she swung the axe back for one final whack. This whack was designed to lodge the axe back into the stump of the tree trunk the way she had found it. Dusting her hands off—a futile effort, she knew—Sara stacked the new wood fire where they would be in easy reach and went back inside. She was startled to see that Ezekiel had already finished unpacking and had pushed the empty crates against the wall by the door.

“I didn’t know so much time had passed,” she said.

Ezekiel grunted from where he stood over the new benches. “Two hours.”

She walked over to him. “What have we got?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. She had learned that he never had nothing to say about his baubles. Which meant this was just his way of showing irritation. She let it pass. She was done placating his feelings today. It was exhausting. She could wait him out.

True to form, it didn’t take long before he cracked.

“A few interesting things. What I liked most was an Emres tablet with some very interesting inscriptions.”

She murmured, “Sounds cool.”

He turned and nudged his spectacles up on his nose. “I thought you don’t know what Emres was.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “If you’re going to be an asshole, I can leave.”

She turned to go. He reached out a hand that stopped just before it grabbed hold of her shoulder. He apparently remembered the last time he’d grabbed on to her and could have been set afire by the look in her eyes.

“Wait,” he said, dropping his hand hastily. “I’m sorry.”

She turned to him. Waiting for more.

“That was nasty of me,” he said, contrite. “I’ve been having a rough day.”

She frowned.

“As have you!” he hastily added.

She crossed her arms.

“Are you seriously going to make me carry this entire conversation?”

“Maybe,” she grudgingly admitted.

Then they both chuckled.

“The Emres society was around during the first fifty years of the Algardis Empire. It was a cult that revered a dragon.”

“And the tablet?”

“Maybe insight into why they did so,” he said with excitement.

“Why wouldn’t they?” She was a little confused. Dragons weren’t necessarily revered in the present time, but they were certainly respected. And back at the founding of the entire, a lot of humans had wanted nothing more than to be taken back to Sahalia with their dragon masters.

He shrugged. “Lots of reasons. No one likes to be beholden to another, and dragons were particularly nasty masters. The question is, during the forefront of a revolution, why would these humans of the Emres society be the ones who held out?”

This topic was drifting dangerously close to a history lesson. She shifted uncomfortably.

He noticed her boredom.

“But I do have something else very interesting. In fact, I think you’ll like it” said Ezekiel. “It came in the other crate.”

He pointed toward the other bench that he’d set up across the room. When he began to walk across the room and saw that she wasn’t following, he begged. “Come on. You really need to see this.”

She wasn’t so sure, but she dropped her crossed arms and followed reluctantly.

When he stood over the five artifacts on the bench triumphantly, she raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

From left to right sat a huge conch shell, a peeling bow and arrow set, a diamond necklace, a leather cat-o’-nine-tails, and a cloak of patchwork design. The first one she dismissed as a novelty, the second looked nonfunctional, the third was gaudy, the fourth wasn’t to her taste, and the fifth looked like it would fall apart at any second.

She looked at Ezekiel wondering what he knew that she didn’t. Her skepticism shone in her eyes.

“They may look old,” he said. “But trust me—some of this stuff is worth its weight in gold.”

She looked and decided to play a game. She would pick the one which she thought was the most worthless. She was a horrible judge of value, so whichever that one was would clearly be the one that was most valuable. Or she’d proved it was all a bunch of junk.

“The conch shell?”

“Well, no not that one,” he said with a frown. “To tell you the truth I think they picked it up in salvage by mistake.”

“The diamond necklace, then,” she said dryly. You couldn’t go wrong with extravagant jewelry.

“Well, it’s cursed. So no,” he said with a shudder. “And not the kind of curse that you would wish on even your worst enemy, either.”

“That’s some curse,” she said. “How about the cat-o’-nine-tails?”

“The what?”

She gestured at it. “The whip? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of one? Everyone has.”

He cleared his throat. “You mean everyone who thinks fighting to the death is a sport?”

She grimaced. “Fair enough, let’s move on.”

“Wait! What does it do?”

“Shouldn’t
you
be telling me that?”

He shook his head. “This particular whip is famous for who owned it, not how it was made.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“It does exactly what you think. The tail end of the whip is split into nine heads so that when a person is lashed it inflicts the most pain. Most of the time it’s used for public flogging, but I’ve known lads that enjoy it...with limits.”

He blinked. “Why would someone enjoy using that?”

“Torture, fun, what have you,” she said.

“Fun?”

“Look,” she said, uncomfortable, “why don’t we talk about
why
you brought me over here? What exactly is it that you thought would excite me?”

He looked like he wanted to prod her more. She put on her most stubborn face.

“Fine,” he sighed, and then picked up the worn crossbow set. “This is it.”

She looked at it in amazement. “Really? It’s falling apart.”

Scandalized, he said, “This is one of the
only
crossbow sets still intact from the original war to establish the empire!”

“It certainly looks old enough.” Her disdain was palpable.

He stared at her astonishment. “It’s close to two hundred years old.”

“
Definitely
old enough, then.”

When he clearly was about to have a meltdown, she said, “But in nice condition. Shouldn’t it be rotting in the ground by now?”

He groaned aloud. “The crossbows of the first battle were forged by Mitas, the fire mason with gifts from the gods.”

“The gods?” She couldn’t halt the laughter that escaped.

“Your reverence is charming,” he said dryly.

She shrugged. “Sorry, I just never thought they messed with mortals.”

“They don’t anymore but they did in the beginning.”

“So this Mitas crossbow is special because of its historical relevance?”

“It’s special because it still works.”

She stared at the bow and arrow in his hands. The wood was splintering, the leather had worn away until it was nothing but stiff strips along the bow and the string on the handle looked thin enough to snap.

“Does it?” she said.

He stiffened. “All right then, I’ll prove it to you.”

He began to string the bow. “Don’t,” she warned. “I don’t want you poking your eye out with that damn string. It could snap right in your face.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” He kept tightening the string.

She began to get worried. “I’m serious, Ezekiel.”

“I’m serious too,” he said. “It’ll work. Now, if you’d step back, please?”

She didn’t budge. “You’ve proved your point—put it down.”

He looked directly at her. “I haven’t yet and I’m going to do this. So
please
step back. The bow will work. But my aim might not be so good.”

She wasn’t going to force him to unstring the crossbow. Fighting over a weapon was how people got stabbed or shot and she feared he would the one laying on the ground bleeding.

“If you must,” she said as she took a step back to just behind his left shoulder.

Sara watched as Ezekiel brought the crossbow up and aimed. With a practiced eye, she saw to her surprise that he had good form. Ezekiel the curator actually knew what he was doing. Too bad he was using a crossbow that was likely to seriously maim him. Then Sara watched in astonishment as the splintering wood of the loaded arrow transformed. What had looked like raised splinters in the middle of its shaft were actually carefully concealed hinges. The hinges spread out in the middle of the arrow and the thin wood slats on either side arced upward into a sort of diamond shape.

What a strange arrow
, she thought. It was clear that the arrow was built to do this and the crossbow was built to handle it, but what exactly it would do after that, she had no idea.

Ezekiel took a deep breath and let his arrow fly. She was surprised to say the least, when it not only flew true to its target, the front door, but also exploded the door into bits when it blasted straight through the center and sent shards of wood splinters flying back toward them.