The bait has been taken.
Rest is up to Karles now, if he can keep his head cool.
Pain rattled Linder's nerves like the thrum of a bard's lute, warm blood oozed through his shirt underneath and trickled down his back-- yet he was elated when he found the fake dagger missing from his saddlebag. Now he had but one aim. Survival.
He lurched sideways, and with a swift movement dropped to the ground from his mount. His assailant's cutlasses slashed nothing but thin air above the saddle, where Linder had been moments ago. His black stallion, ever faithful to its master-- and rather agitated by the sudden movement rose upon its hind legs and slammed the front hooves right into the hired killer's side.
The man went pitching to one side and had it not been for his armor, his ribs would have shattered from the impact. He was flung face-first into a muddy puddle of melted snow.
"Apologies," said Linder, arms spread wide, "but I prefer my opponents down-to-earth."
The man's eyes narrowed as he spit out the sludge. "You're gonna die a slow and painful death for that statement alone."
"You seem awfully sure of your victory." Linder hissed a laugh, swayed right, dodged left, the dual cutlasses managing no more than snipping off one stray lock of his hair-- and he was directly before the man the next moment.
He might have caught Linder off guard, but he was tactless.
"You make this too easy for me," he said, "clearly, your employer thought me nothing more than a mere bump on the road."
In a blur of acrid green, the real crystal dagger slithered out of its sheath and Linder plunged it, base-deep, into the man's throat.
Red blood sprouted out.
Linder's eyes widened. This man was not the Vasaen hired to kill him, but rather--
A trap.
A decoy.
A bait...for him to be taken while the real killer does his job behind his back.
Draedona take my soul, I've been fooled!
Far from amidst the battle, from the few soldiers who had noticed Linder, arose warning cries and shouts.
"LOOK BEHIND YOU!"
He was too late.
Linder had chalked out the entire plan up until now, been thinking on it all the way here from Brittlerock, weighed the odds, hooked the bait, and lay in wait. Yet never had he expected to be the one baited.
From behind, a sword thrusted headlong in a swift, calculated move. The blade tore through his armour and broke past chainmail.
The sword's bloodied tip shot out from above his navel.
The killer, the true Vasaen was was right behind him, yet the crystal dagger, the only weapon able to rend sorcerous flesh was still lodged into the throat of the decoy man.
His assailant gave the sword a savage twist. Linder felt his insides rip, his guts wrench, and Draedona's cold, invisible fingers close around his wrist as his vision blurred.
Where did it all go wrong?
With a vicious kick to his back, the man dislodged the longsword. Linder's limp body staggered forward, and knees sank deep in the snow gifted by the untimely winter.
"You'll have all eternity in hell to regret your choices, soldier. Nobody messes with the Guild."
A low, dry laugh. Job finished, the Vasaen went his way. Footsteps began to fade across the filthy snow. Distant cries echoed. Other soldiers were coming running to his rescue.
A wasted effort.
Gods, I'm done for.
With fading vision, Linder peered above at the slow, graceful descent of snow. The storm had died down. A shrill ringing echoed in his ears, drowning out all else.
By now, Karles must have already done his part, and the true culprit had been brought before the disbelieving eyes of the soldiers of Kinallen. The mystery was resolved, and his job was finished. Kinallen needed him no more.
What did it matter now if Linder survived or not? This wretch of a soldier who couldn't even get himself a place among the Royal Guards?
'That dust-clogged, disease-ridden mine is where you belong.' Father had written to him only once, and not a word more.
Now, tottering at the edge of oblivion, he did not feel like resisting. He'd been yearning for a year-long break. Peace.
This could be his chance. Not merely a year, but all eternity. He was exhausted, so very tired of it all.
Screams of agony sounded behind him. Bodies were flung. Linder struggled to glance over his shoulder, the effort taking every last bit of his energy left.
The Vasaen was still there, not more than a hundred paces away, engaged in combat with the soldiers who had been trying to rush to help Linder-- and, unsurprisingly, the sorcerous monster was no match for them.
He was throwing around fully armed men as though they weighed nothing. They shouted, they bled, yet did not cease to fight.
Fight.
"Hang in there, Sarge!" shouted one of the soldiers.
The words, although meant to reassure him, landed like a harsh slap across Linder's face, and dragged him back from the miserable acceptance of death he'd been wallowing within. His frozen hands still gripped the dagger. The air filling his lungs was ice cold, his blood, although running out fast, was still warm. Alive. Alive.
Rhilio's mercy, what was I thinking?
How could he leave all these soldiers to the mercy of a Vasaen? That monster would slaughter the whole village.
Damnit, Clearstrike-- she trusted me with the dagger for a reason!
Groaning, one hand clasping his stomach, Linder got to his feet and swung to face the fight in the distance. A slow smile curled his split lips. He was in no shape for a head on fight.
Nevertheless, he still had one last trick up his sleeve, or rather, vambrace.
Crystal dagger clasped in his right hand, he broke into a sprint-- or what little he could manage in the way of running-- and lunged at the Vasaen from behind.
The Vasaen, of course, swung to parry the attack. A choked gasp left Linder as the man's longsword impaled his right arm-- incapacitating the hand he'd been holding the dagger with. Linder doubled over, sinking to one knee.
"So the dog's still alive, eh?" said the killer, teeth bared in a snarl.
"Seems like it. And you just walked right into that dog's trap." Linder looked the man in the eye and forced a smile.
"What're you raving about?"
Linder simply dropped the dagger from his right hand into his left. He dug it deep into the man's thigh-- through flesh and through bone.
He wouldn't be so dangerous if he can't walk, would he?
The Vasaen let out a blood-curdling scream, but Linder didn't stop, he yanked out the dagger, stabbed again, the other leg-- below the knee-- onto the foot-- until he hit an artery. Black blood sprayed across his face.
The man tried to dislodge his weapon from Linder's arm in vain-- then jabbed his elbow hard into the stab wound on Linder's back.
The dagger flew from his grip, but some other Midaelian soldier promptly seized it and continued the onslaught he'd left off.
Breathing hard, Linder fell on his back, at the end of his strength and bleeding into the snow.
The last thing he saw was dozens of soldiers closing in on the dying Vasaen, before his vision plunged into darkness.
✦✧✦✧
Panic closed around Farren's heart like an iron fist. The wave of magic that threw them all backward, clearing the path between Karles and Dion, reeked of Ancient Sorcery, with which came the centuries-old, blood-sodden tradition of the Death Ring. A mindless match of sorcery that had never, in the history of Stormvale, ended well.
It had snatched away the lives of many talented sorcerers, who had made the suicidal decision for naught more than a show of power.
Yet Dion's motive today was not of a duel, but of revenge. Whatever kind of twisted trust he'd put in Karles had been shattered.
"How long have these two been working together? Karles and Linder?" she asked, struggling to get to her feet.
"Ever since the two had rode here from Brittlerock," said Klo, her tone stern.
"You knew?"
She threw a cold glare Farren's way. "Karles told us all the details right before this mission. You and Gray would've known too, if you didn't sneak off on your own," she said, "and for Rendarr over there, well, he thought it was perfectly reasonable to take a nap behind some bushes right before a mission."
"Builds up the energy!" yelled Rendarr from somewhere amidst the chaos.
Farren was already readying her throwing axes, letting her magic flow through her veins and onto her palms, charging the blades with sorcery.
A Death Ring needed some time to be completed and sealed. Good thing was, Dion had not yet been able to channel the full extent of his sorcery, what with the arrows and crossbow quarrels flung at him. All that dodging and skittering was wearing him down. Yet Karles had still been bound to the spot, and that was what worried Farren the most.
Once the barrier closed, not even Rhilio could get him out unscathed.
Farren muttered, once again, the incantations of the spell of immobility. The throwing axes in her both hands sizzled with the magic. She reared back, took aim, and--
"Farren, don't!" A pair of arms tackled her from behind, and she nearly released the spell on them. She whirled to find it was Rendarr.
"What the--" she cried, "it could've hurt you, damnit!"
But Rendarr paid that no mind. "Do not use magic now, I beg you," he said, gesturing toward the other end of the trail, in the direction which led to the camp.
The two Council Mages, who had arrived at the camp the previous day to take Alastair to Byton, were riding this way.
"Sniffed out the sorcery at once," he said, "let them deal with Dion. You don't have to meddle with this. Else they'll arrest you too!"
But the hurrying mages were still more than a couple hundred paces away, and Dion had already managed to close half of the ring.
Klo regarded the mages with a narrow-eyed stare. "Damned cowards. Barricaded themselves in a barrack when they heard there would be a fight. Now watch them come riding to take credit, when we have already cornered the beast."
"By the time those fools reach them, Karles will be done for." Farren shook off Rendarr's grip on her arm, "we haven't much time!"
This isn't a violation of the law of restriction, is it? Surely the Council would understand if magic was used to save a comrade's life?
Farren flung the first axe at Dion, at the man who had stood up for her many times. Who had defended her from Alastair. Who was liked and loved all around the camp.
All lies.
He wore a mask all this while, like the unfortunates of Silver Knife.
On went the axe, spinning through the air, but she missed. Not easy, hitting a moving target-- a damned assassin no less. But besides all that, she would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that her hand trembled, just a little bit.
The Death Ring was nearly finished now, not more than an arm's length left to enclose the ring.
"I said stop this!" Rendarr snatched at her arm, but Farren scurried away, taking aim again.
"Don't be reckless, Farren. Think about your family!" he shouted, as he had so many times before.
There it was again. Annoyance prickled in her at those words, the emotion as intense as its roots were unknown. Hadn't she surpassed recklessness itself so that she could see her family safe? Hadn't she ripped open her own soul so that she could be strong enough to protect them?
Yet why did the harmless, well-meant phrase irked her so?
Farren didn't know, nor was this time to find out either. She cast another sorcery-charged throwing axe toward Dion, even as Rendarr tackled her to the ground.
Missing the initial aim at the neck, the axe whirled through the air and sliced through his ankle.
Uttering a scream, Dion sank to his knees, and could not get up-- partly because of the wound, mostly because of the immobility spell rooting him to the spot.
The ground shook with a dull murmur.
The magic circle sizzled, then dissolved into the crisp air. Finally able to move, Karles reared back on his horse, and shot out of the waning boundary with a gallop. Dismounting, he strode to her side, breaths coming in labored sighs as the magical bindings came off.
"Rhilio's mercy, thank you," he said, taking Farren's hands in his trembling ones, "thought I was done for!"
Farren grinned in response. "Next time, you gotta count me in whatever mad plans you and your Valerie come up with."
"Yes..." His voice shook and wavered as he placed his hands over his heart. "Yes, I will."
✦✧✦✧
"Do not move, unless you wish to die a painful death," warned one of the Council Mages as his mount came to a halt right before Dion. His command was pointless, however.
Dion remained frozen on the spot, bound by magic and clutching his bleeding leg. And he could do no more than a scowl as the mage swung his staff through the air, the swift motions twisting into a complicated gesture of sophisticated sorcery Farren could not quite understand. Only thing she could grasp was that the man was an ice mage.
A soft crackle sounded, like a lake freezing over. The miniscule snowflakes riding the air condensed into two shackles around Dion's wrists-- heavy and iron-hard, and a length of chain, its links of sorcerous ice instead of metal, materialized between them. Staff hooked with the chains, the mage dragged him away across the trail. The soldiers did not let their guard down just yet.
"You there, the redhead! Step forward!" bellowed the other mage.
So intently had Farren been watching Dion, she had not yet registered the Council Mage addressing her and only turned when the mage's towering figure blocked her vision. Involuntarily, she reared back a few steps.
"You do realize what you just did?" The mage's hard, black eyes fixed upon Farren. The squad had fallen silent.
With Karles and Rendarr on her either side, she steeled herself. "I do. Helped my friend and helped you capture a murderer who'd been hiding among our ranks for so long."
Unlike the many other poor choices she'd made in her life, she did not, even for a heartbeat, regret this one. Yes, she had violated the law of restriction. So what? Had she stayed put, Karles would very possibly be dead.
The mage trembled with silent fury, saying nothing.
"A simple thank you would suffice, sir," offered Farren.
All faces turned to her, giving warning looks through wide eyes, silently telling her to shut up-- except for Rendarr, who failed to suppress a laugh and choked.
"Enough!" said the mage, his voice dangerously low, "I will not take cheek from a common, peasant-born soldier. You are to come with us, now-- with that assassin over there. You'll answer before the Council for your actions and insolent behavior."
Boots clicked against rock-studded earth. A figure towered over the mage and cleared her throat.
"With due respect," said Klo, although from her expression it was clear that there was indeed none, "I must remind you that you do not have the authority to take a member of my squad anywhere, for it is up to the Minister of Defence to decide her fate, if need be. More importantly, she has done no wrong, and we all are witnesses to the fact."
"Ah, so you are fine with your squad doing as they please? Violating a law that has been in action for centuries? If this is what goes on away from the capital," he jeered, "I see King Forthwind must be informed about this."
"Of course. While you're at it, do also mention that Council Mages have been reduced to mere escorts for emissaries, and--," said Klo, throwing her words like blades of ice, "--they hide like afeard children beneath a cot when they hear of a few lousy bandits."
"I am warning you, Sergeant. Know your place," he spat, "I have shown the civility my vows compel me to. Not much point in arguing with you uncivilized lot, is there?"
He turned, and extended his staff's other end toward Farren. Sorcery crackled into life from its end-- lightning bolts. The Council Mages were infamous for using the shock on a noncompliant captive-- a means to make them talk.
And when they did talk, the mages made sure they didn't lie. They'd bring in statues called Priests Of Rhilio, enchanted so that they could detect every skipping heartbeat and every shaking breath of a liar, and ring their bells of justice.
There was no escape.
"Stop right there."
Rendarr stepped before her, arms spread. The squad surrounding the clearing took their defensive positions once more.
Strange. So very strange...
Farren was not accustomed to this. No, the threats and harsh words thrown at her by the mage-- that she was used to. What felt alien to her was this many people taking her side. She was not used to people standing up for her, and it terrified her, like it had when Linder had shown true concern for her, when Klo had praised her-- when Captain Rivera placed the dagger in her trembling hands.
If you wield it well, soldier, then claim it. Farren was not letting this mage drag her away today, even if the Council marked her as a criminal. An outlaw, on the run.
"Step aside, foolish lad!" the mage snarled at Rendarr.
"Over my dead body," was his only answer.
A cruel grin twisted the man's harsh features. "Ah, that can be arranged."
"We'll see about that, sir." A dozen paces far crouched Karles, arrow nocked on his longbow and aiming at the mage.
The air smelled like a storm at once, lightning frizzled at the mage's staff.
"Run, Farren!" Rendarr screamed.
Streaks of white light crackled out of the staff and-- before Farren could so much as turn-- hit her squarely in the chest, flinging her several paces back.
And for perhaps the first time in her life, she was grateful for her deal with Atruer. Common magic, be it healing or assault spells, would not work on her.
It hurt when her back slammed onto the ground, yet nothing of the lightning bolt-- its shock severe enough to knock out a warhorse-- had managed to touch Farren. Only a bit of smoke fizzled from the rough ends of her hair, but other than that, nothing.
"A resistant! Gods, this miserable village is filled with uncouth folk and mutants," shouted the mage, readying his next spell, the sheer strength of which rattled the surrounding trees.
And Farren knew she would not withstand his next attack-- a much stronger sort of sorcery, one that would work on resistants. Scrambling to her feet, she began to sprint the other way.
A fight yet again broke out in the clearing, the soldiers closing in on the mage-- arrows, bolts and spells flung left and right.
"Run, Farren!" Rendarr's voice had gone hoarse from all the shouting, "better you leave than rot down in a torture chamber of the Council! Or swing from the high gallows!"
There goes my plans for this week.
She ran.