At first Scrounge seemed intrigued. “And just why is that?” he asked almost cordially. The room had become as still as a graveyard. Table and chairs began to screech away from the man with the sword. Still he held his ground, continuing to glare up at Scrounge.
“Because I had the privilege of once being a commander in the Royal Guard, and I knew Prince Tristan personally,” the man snarled. “I do not know where he is now, or why he left us. But I also know that if he killed his own father, which I seriously doubt, there must have been a good reason. A great many things happened to a great many people that fateful day—the prince included. I refuse to believe he willfully committed patricide.” He paused briefly, the light still glinting off the razor-sharp blade of his sword. “I will not let you foul the land with your perverted posters. Even if I have to kill you to stop you.” The words hung for a long time in the stillness of the room, as if begging to be answered. The challenge had been made.
“Ah, a relic from the past,” Scrounge said mockingly. Arms akimbo, he shook his head back and forth in derision. “I knew there were still a few of you left limping about the land. From what I have seen of you fellows, you really don’t constitute much of a presence. And certainly not enough to regain control of this poor, beleaguered nation. The only thing that matters these days is how many kisa a man has in his pocket, and everyone knows that. No, I’m afraid your particular brand of antiquated honor just doesn’t count for much anymore.”
The crowd burst into laughter, hoots, and hollers. Realizing the crowd was on his side, Scrounge cleverly let the jeering run its course.
“Besides,” the assassin continued almost happily, “hundreds of people saw the treacherous prince do it! They can’t all be wrong! He used one of the winged monster’s own swords to take his father’s head upon the very altar of the Paragon. No, my friend, I think you should just go back to your rather deluded memories of the past. Leave such things to those of us who know what to do, and how to do it.” The crowd jeered as the man with the sword grew red in the face.
“If you will not desist in this madness, then I shall kill you where you stand!” the Royal Guard officer exploded, taking a step closer.
This will be his mistake, Geldon thought. He is acting with his heart, instead of his brain.
Strangely, Scrounge lowered his head and closed his dark eyes. A faint smile played on his lips. Finally he looked up again and shook his head knowingly, snorting out a soft laugh. “I don’t really think you’re going to get the chance,” he said softly.
In a fraction of a second he raised his right arm, and snapped his fist toward the floor twice. Immediately two of the miniature arrows from his crossbow were flying toward the officer. They pierced him through the muscles above his clavicle and impaled him to the wall. Screaming in pain, the officer tried to free himself but could not. No one moved; no one spoke. Geldon sat stock-still at the bar. He had never seen such a fast weapon, he realized—except, perhaps, for the prince’s dirks.
Scrounge jumped down from the bar and walked to the man pinned against the wall. The officer’s toes were several inches from the floor, and rivulets of bright red blood ran down his clothing. Scrounge bent over to pick up the broadsword that the officer had dropped in his pain.
“Thank you,” the assassin said softly, wickedly. “I have long wanted one of these for my collection.” He placed the point of the blade beneath the officer’s chin, viciously forcing the man’s face up. “No wonder you couldn’t vanquish the winged ones when they came,” he added nastily.
He backed away from the man, admiring the scene as if he were a painter or a sculptor trying to decide what feature he was going to change next. He then stepped in closer, leaning conspiratorially in to the officer’s ear.
“I hope you don’t mind, but these are really quite expensive, and I need them back,” he whispered. With that he reached up and yanked the arrows from the man’s body. The officer crashed to the floor and screamed in pain. The blood from his wounds came much faster now, little rivers of it running slowly into the cracks and crevices of the dirty floor. After wiping the tips of the arrows on a nearby tablecloth, Scrounge very carefully rearranged them on the wheel of his crossbow. He acted casually, like a man who had just been target shooting rather than mutilating a fellow human being.
Bravely, the officer looked up from the floor and spat upon Scrounge’s boots. “I will yet live to kill you,” he whispered through his pain.
Scrounge smiled that curious smile again. “Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “For you see, you ignorant bastard, you’re already dead.”
He then carefully put the spur of his right boot up against the officer’s cheek. With a violent, forward thrust of his foot he ran the silver spur into and along the man’s face, tearing a wide gash in his flesh from the bottom of his right earlobe to the hairline. The officer groaned and fainted from the pain.
Scrounge turned back to the spellbound crowd. “Is there anyone else here who would choose to disagree with what has been asked of you today?” he shouted. The silence in the room was palpable, and there was no hint of movement. “Good,” he said. “The next time I see any of you, it had best be because you have the prince of Eutracia in your grasp.”
Still holding the stolen broadsword, he walked purposefully from the room. Geldon, still sitting at the bar, looked down in horror at the injured officer and then back up to Rock. What had Scrounge meant about the officer already being dead?
“This is only the beginning, you know,” the barman said, shaking his head slowly. “I fear our land is in great distress indeed.”
Geldon felt the poster against his skin beneath his shirt and took a long, deep, breath.
More than you know, Rock, he thought to himself. More than you know.
4
It was good to feel Pilgrim beneath him again, Tristan thought as he made his way along the secluded trail. Even the rain on his face was a welcome relief from the confinement of the Redoubt.
The night was dark and cool. The light of the three red moons seemed to follow him as they sailed silently across the night sky. They cast a soft, almost eerie glow upon the rain-laden foliage, pointing up the silver prisms created by the raindrops still clinging to the branches and trees.
It had stopped raining only shortly before. He had actually been glad of the downpour, for it made his stallion’s hooves just that much quieter each time they struck the ground. And the clean, unmistakable scent of fresh rain had helped to blot out the horror of all he had learned and seen that night.
The purloined dark-blue consul’s robe he was wearing was cold and clammy, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. But he was appreciative of it, nonetheless. It covered both the dreggan and the dirks lying across his back, and its hood could be pulled up to hide his face if he came upon anyone.
He had chosen this particular trail because it was so seldom used, especially at night. Just the same, he chose to take no more chances than he had already committed himself to. If the wizards learned of his departure from the Redoubt they would be furious.
Rather than using the tunnels to exit the Redoubt, he had chosen to come up through the royal palace above. He had no desire to bump into Geldon upon the dwarf’s return trip from Tammerland and be forced to explain his presence in the tunnels. Although the odds of that happening were very small, it wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. Second, there was a more personal, compelling reason. He wished for the first time since the death of his family and the Directorate to visit the Great Hall, the scene of their demise.
He had walked through the palace halls quite slowly at first, overcome by a feeling of dread, as if he might be confronted by the Minions of Day and Night, or even by one of the Coven. But he was now lord of the Minions, he reminded himself, and the members of the Coven were all dead. Here in the palace, at least, there was nothing left to fear.