The Unseen Hand

Ch 9: Fisheye

Venedi, Seventh of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

Even the gloom of night could not attenuate the grandeur of Ca'd'Cel. The finest carpenters in Reyza had crafted the balcony that ringed the hall of the villa. Ornately carved pillars as thick as tree trunks rose at regular intervals, marking the boundaries of the parqueted floors. A curved staircase with carpeted steps connected the first and second story, and on the walls, a multitude of paintings vied for attention.

Jarle barely made a sound as he made his way toward the servants' stair. He offered silent thanks to the long-forgotten carpenters who had crafted such an unshakable floor.

Though his muscles strained, it was not Avaren's weight that concerned him, but the need to safeguard someone other than himself. He despised the feeling of having his hands tied in a house crawling with guards eager for a kill. Every stride invoked the waking nightmare of getting stabbed in the back.

Jarle was nearly at the servant stairwell when someone called out, "There he is! He's got Avaren!"

Abandoning stealth for speed, Jarle ran down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Behind him, the thuds of boots grew louder. The guards were closing in fast.

Realizing that he could not outrun them with Avaren in his arms, Jarle stopped on the corner landing between floors. He lay the unconscious girl at the foot of the stairs and eased back into the shadows.

The first man to rush down the stairs was younger than him. He held a dagger above his head—an almost comical gesture when combined with his utter lack of dexterity. In his blind rage, the young Calantian was slow to see the woman at the foot of the stairs. He let out a shout and tried to slow down, but his momentum thrust him forward. The soldier leaped over Avaren and lost his balance.

Jarle emerged from the shadows. He grabbed the guard and used the man's forward motion to slam him headfirst into the wall. Reeling from the blow, the soldier lost his grip on the blade. The weapon clattered noisily down the steps.

Jarle didn't wait for the guard to recover. He kicked his leg out from under him and sent him careening down the next flight of steps. The sound of crunching bone joined an anguished grunt. The youth attempted to pull himself up and failed. He called out to his comrades. "It's a trap!"

Jarle sank back into the shadows. He recognized the man on the young guard's heels. Captain Varrus Sigolian descended the steps with caution. He crouched next to Avaren and felt for a pulse. He peered into the shadows as if to pierce them. Behind him, footsteps signaled another man.

Doubting he could take both men simultaneously, Jarle pulled two daggers free of his wrist sheathes and let them fly.

The movement triggered Varrus' battle-honed reflexes. He dodged out of the path of the first dagger only to be impaled by the next. The blade struck true, sinking hilt-deep into his throat.

Varrus's sword fell from his hand with a deadened clang. Hot blood filled his throat, spilling out of his mouth and nostrils. With a shuddering gurgle, the Calantian captain fell backward.

Midway down the stairs, the injured youth cried out, "Uncle! What is happening?"

Jarle barely had time to draw his daggers as another guard appeared in the stairwell. The soldier was well built and nimble, brandishing a broadsword with a long reach. Shoving past his dying comrade, he leaped over Avaren. Spittle burst from behind clenched teeth as he swung in the shadows.

Jarle ducked the blow. He scrambled along the curving wall seeking an opening in his opponent's guard. The Calantian was not intimidated by darkness or cramped quarters. Worse, the injured youth was still yelling—a sound that would attract anyone Mast hadn't already killed.