Darius watched the two soldiers guarding the door through which his lordship had entered. They looked well trained and disciplined. Their uniforms were neat and clean and the weapons they wore were certainly not just for show. Factor in the severe style of this fortress and the curt attitude of the lord himself and Darius couldn’t shake the feeling that they needed this man. He seemed to be a lord after the old fashion, disciplined and independent. Unfortunately, though he’d as yet remained free of Velutio’s control, he’d also declined the invitation to join them at Munda. Darius hoped that was due to the need to protect his land rather than a lack of support for their cause on his part, but that hope was starting to waver after the lord’s greeting. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and strode forward to Tythias, who was scanning the walls. With a weary smile, Darius squared his shoulders. “So, prefect, what d’you…”
He got no further as a look of horror crossed Tythias’ face and he dived, knocking the wind from the young Emperor and crushing him to the ground. Darius looked up in amazement as the prefect fell heavily on top of him, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.
The men of Darius’ personal guard leapt into action, drawing their weapons and some running to protect their master, others taking up positions to defend against Silvas’ guards. Across the courtyard, Brendan and Athas were already running. The archer who’d released the arrow had realised instantly that he’d failed and, dropping the bow, climbed the stairs on which he’d stood, reaching the wall walk and looking about himself urgently. Athas and Brendan glanced at each other and nodded, the large, dark sergeant running for the gatehouse to seal off the man’s exit while Brendan made for the stairs as fast as he could. The bald Wolf’s immediate fears that there may be some larger conspiracy at work were allayed quickly as he saw the archer run along the wall and try to get past one of his fellow guards. The other man stood firm and gave the archer a hefty push, knocking him from the walk and back onto the stairs ahead of Brendan.
The archer struggled to his feet, drawing a sword desperately. Brendan, his anger rising, reached out and grasped the archer’s sword hand, holding the blade away and squeezing the flesh until he heard several cracking sounds. The archer howled, unable to let go of the sword with his opponent’s fist closed painfully around his own. Brendan was aware of people shouting things but paid no attention. He smiled at the archer, whose face was twisted gruesomely and butted the man full in the face, accompanied once again by the cracking of bones. The archer fell back onto the steps, dangling from Brendan by one broken hand and the burly Wolf let go in disgust, the sword clattering away and falling to the paving stones below. The archer clutched his broken face with his good hand, sobbing. Brendan glanced around and saw the man’s bow. Reaching out for it, he unhooked the bowstring from first one end and then the other with an easy flex of his powerful muscles and leaned down over the wounded assassin. Winding each end of the bowstring around his hands, he looped the heavy duty catgut around the panicking man’s neck and pulled it tight. The archer’s good hand pulled away from the bloody, broken face and clawed at the tight cord around his neck. Athas’ voice sounded from a few feet behind Brendan. “Captain, let go of the cord. We need to know who he’s working for.”
Brendan growled. “He’s working for Velutio.”
Down in the courtyard Tythias, struggling with some difficulty due to his one arm, hauled himself off the Emperor and staggered back against the wall. Darius pulled himself up, his face full of concern, but the grizzled prefect grinned. “I have got to stop getting fucking wounded…” he realised who was standing before him and smiled weakly, “…highness.”
As Sathina rushed to help Tythias break the arrow shaft off, the scarred officer placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, lass. Didn’t mean to curse.”
Sathina laughed. “Good grief, Tythias. I didn’t fall for you ‘cause of your poetic tongue.”
Leaving the two to deal with Tythias’ wound, Darius spun round to take in the situation. His fear that the entire greeting in the courtyard may have been a deliberate ambush was put aside as he saw lord Silvas appear once more from the doorway, a look of concern on his face. To one side, on the wall stairs, he could see an interesting tableau: Brendan was kneeling over a man, presumably the attempted murderer, throttling him with some sort of cord. Athas was behind him speaking quietly. His head fuzzy, Darius looked back again at Silvas then at Brendan again.
Taking a deep breath, he called out “Captain, let some slack in that rope.”
Assuming, even hoping, that Brendan had both heard and obeyed, he turned to the master of the palace. “Lord Silvas? This is one of your men. It’s not for mine to punish him.”
Silvas nodded gravely. “Agreed, but he ceased to be one of my men the moment he shot at a guest in my house. Deal with him as you see fit.”
Darius turned back to his men and gave them an exaggerated nod. Athas growled and said under his breath “Brendan, question him.”
Brendan glared into the broken face of the archer.
“Talk to me. If’n you give me enough I’ll give yer a quick death.”
The man stared at Brendan in horror. Athas leaned down over his junior officer’s shoulder. “Tell us everything and he’ll give you the sword. Otherwise I’ll leave you to him and he might take days.”
The man coughed, blood flowing through his shattered teeth. “He’d have paid me well and the whole thing’d be over. I don’t want to die!”
Brendan looked up at Athas. “Velutio again, but only coz this little weasel’s a greedy little cowardly bastard.”
Athas nodded and, turning, walked down the stairs to join the Imperial party below. As he left, Brendan smiled at the archer in front of him.
“Damn, can’t reach me sword.” With a slight shrug, he slowly tightened the cord. The archer gasped, unable to speak and resumed his clawing at the garrotte, his broken hand flopping feebly around with the effort. “Ack, agh…”
“I know,” smiled Brendan. “I’m a bit of a liar, y’see?”
Oblivious to the final throws of the man on the walls, Darius, accompanied by his courtiers and the members of his now very alert and unhappy personal guard made their way through into the great hall on the heels of Lord Silvas himself.
The room continued the military theme of the palace itself. Big and impressive, the hall was of stone rather than marble or brick, with buttresses on the interior as well as the exterior on which oil lamps burned, augmenting the small amount of light the windows admitted. Flags in red and white and military regalia decorated the room and the flagstones had been laid cunningly to provide a map of the Silvas lands. This lord was proud of his heritage and Darius dredged his formidable knowledge of political history. He had vague recollections of the name. The family had been local governors for generations; a most unusual situation, since governorship was usually granted on a five-yearly basis by the Imperial court. One of the earlier Silvas members had presumably so impressed the Emperor of the time that the family had been granted the position in perpetuity; no small honour.
Silvas himself stood to one side of his huge chair behind a table at the far end of the room. Again, Darius was struck by how many nuances of Imperial etiquette he had picked up from his classes under Sarios and the other tutors without even realising it at the time. To have taken a seat would have been to deny the validity of Darius’ claim. The fact that the lord hadn’t knelt showed nothing. He’d as yet taken no oath, but neither did he dispute any claim. He was vaguely aware of Athas and a few others coming in behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Tythias, standing stern and unmoving, despite the arrow jutting from his shoulder and Sathina behind him fussing and muttering.