Promise of Blood

chapter 39



Adamat reined in his hired mount at the front gate of the villa. His horse tossed its head, sides lathered from the long gallop. Adamat wiped sweat from his forehead and patted the creature’s flank. He could also see the very top of the villa, and the carriages rumbling toward it.

“The arch-diocel isn’t taking visitors.” These were Tamas’s men; soldiers in their dark-blue uniforms, lapels stained silver. One of them gestured to Adamat with his bayoneted rifle. “Go on,” he said. “Read your newspaper tomorrow.”

Adamat rested just a moment to get his breath, his mount prancing beneath him.

“You don’t look like you ride much,” the soldier said with a lopsided smile.

“I don’t,” Adamat snapped. “I have to warn Field Marshal Tamas.”

The soldier’s easy manner disappeared. He stepped close, while his partner circled around to Adamat’s other side.

“Listen,” Adamat said as his horse shied away from the soldier. He sawed at the reins. “I’m Adamat, the field marshal’s investigator. Tamas is walking into a trap.”

The soldier gave Adamat a hard look. “I’ve heard the name passed around,” he said slowly. “Go on. Don’t make an idiot of yourself.”

Adamat nodded desperately, still breathing hard. He’d not ridden like this since he was at the university.

The gate was pushed open and Adamat urged his mount through. They were on the cobblestone drive, and he kneed the poor animal into a gallop. He bent down next to the creature’s neck, white-knuckled grip on the reins. The carriages were to the house now, circled around the fountain in front of the villa.

Rifle shots rang out, startling the horse. It missed a step and stumbled, pitching sidelong into a ditch. Adamat cried out as he was thrown. He cleared the ditch completely, hitting the ground hard, and rolled. A vineyard post arrested his roll. He got to his hands and knees, clutching a pain in his side.

“Rosvel’s ass!” There was blood on his hand from some minor cut. He wiped it on his coat, pulling himself up and checking his chest and sides. No broken bones, but some mighty bruises. His mount lay on its side in the ditch, flanks heaving. “You won’t be getting me any farther, will you?”

The shots continued. Shouts followed. He was too late. Vetas’s man had already warned the arch-diocel. Adamat closed his eyes. What could he do? This was his fault. He had no rifle—just a pistol and a sword. He returned to the drive, eyes cast up toward the house. A carriage had overturned, soldiers had scattered to the vineyard, exchanging fire with unknown assailants. No muzzle flashes or powder smoke from the house. What were Tamas’s men shooting at? He shook his head. Air rifles, of course. Damn it.

Adamat went back over the ditch and into the vineyard at a run. He gave the house a wide berth, cutting through the vineyards and then back behind a stable. He glimpsed blue coats here and there, soldiers crouched in cover. The rifle shots were becoming too few and far between. It did not bode well.

He leapt a course of firewood and nearly landed on one of Tamas’s soldiers. The man swung his rifle toward Adamat, almost sticking him with the bayonet. He was a young man, unseasoned and more than a little wide-eyed. “Name!” he demanded, voice quavering.

“Get that out of my face.” Adamat grabbed the rifle by the barrel, shoving it away. “I’m Adamat. Does Tamas have the whole property covered?”

The soldier regarded him warily. His hands were shaking. He’d probably never seen live fire before, outside of his drills.

Adamat grabbed the soldier by the front of his uniform. “You hear those shots? They’ve been ambushed in the front. It’s got to be a distraction. Charlemund will use that cover to escape.”

The soldier hesitated. “I don’t trust you,” he said slowly.

“Holy pit, look!” Adamat pointed toward the house.

The soldier whirled. Adamat brought his elbow down hard on the boy’s neck. “Sorry,” he said, taking the rifle. He pushed the boy’s unconscious form up against the firewood stack and looked about, trying to spot more of Tamas’s soldiers. He caught sight of one near the edge of the house, creeping about toward the front—more concerned about his comrades in the firefight than with anyone escaping out the back.

“Damn it, I’m going to be doing this alone.” He ran, half crouching, until he was fully behind the villa. He stopped behind a shed and listened. The shots had stopped. He ducked around the shed for a look. The back of the villa was an open portico, a sun garden with large parasols and awnings for shade. There was a thin gravel maintenance drive. A single-horsed carriage waited in the drive, with a familiar, miserable-looking driver. Tamas checked for guards—there were none. He ran forward.

“Siemone,” he said. The driver looked up. The young priest had a stricken look about his face—he was disturbed enough that he forgot to avoid looking Adamat full in the face. For a moment.

“What are you doing here?” Siemone said, averting his eyes. “Get out, before the arch-diocel sees you.”

“You’re helping him escape,” Adamat said. He grabbed the horse by the bridle.

“I have to,” Siemone said. He clutched the reins tight.

“No, you don’t. He’s an evil man, a traitor. Don’t help him.”

“You don’t think I know?” Siemone said. The words came out a sob. “I’ve known all along. I’m sorry I paid those men to kill you. Please understand, I could do nothing. I can’t be free of him. I’m glad you’re still alive. Now, get out of here before he comes. He’ll cut you down.”

Adamat took a deep breath. “Siemone,” he said, stepping forward.

“Don’t come another step,” the priest warned.

Adamat paused. “Please, Siemone.” He inched forward.

“Guards!” Siemone called. “Quickly!”

A pair of men rushed from the back of the house. They wore the garb of Church guards, and drew their swords at the sight of Adamat.

Prielight Guards. Elite soldiers in the employ of the Church. They protected the arch-diocels with their lives. If they got close to Adamat, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Adamat stepped back and took the rifle in both hands, hoping it was loaded.

He aimed for the first guard and squeezed the trigger. The shot resounded in the yard. The man took a few more steps and stumbled to his knees. The second ran past him, coming fast. Adamat threw down the rifle and drew his pistol. The blast took the guard directly in the chest. He grunted, a look of frustration on his face, and dropped. The first guard had slowly gotten to his feet. He swayed drunkenly. Adamat drew his sword and stepped forward. The man managed to parry four or five thrusts before Adamat landed a disabling blow.

“Siemone!” someone shouted. “We fly!”

Adamat turned. Charlemund ran from the back of the villa, cape over one arm, sheathed sword in the other.

“Go,” Adamat said. “Go without him! You can do it, Siemone!”

The priest squeezed his eyes shut and began to pray. Adamat swore, whirled toward Charlemund.

“You!” the arch-diocel grunted, stopping just inside the garden. He glanced over his fallen guards in disgust.

Adamat stepped forward, between Charlemund and the carriage. The pistol had been his only chance. Charlemund was the best swordsman in the Nine. He’d tear Adamat apart. Adamat raised his sword and swallowed hard.

Charlemund plucked at the string around his neck and tossed his cape aside. He drew his sword and cast away the sheath.

The attack came faster than Adamat could have imagined. Adamat parried by instinct only—he’d been considered a fine fencer long ago, but those years were past and he’d wielded little more than a cane sword since. Adamat fell back beneath the advance. He skipped away, retreating fast. The arch-diocel came on relentlessly, a stab here, a slash there, the tip of his sword mere inches from Adamat’s face and chest.

“A fine fencer” was a relative term against someone like Charlemund. Adamat felt worthless, like a child at his first lesson. These were no wooden training swords, though. When Charlemund flicked forward, effortlessly, he drew blood. The initial cuts were merely scratches and pricks. Enough of those would leave a man dead as sure as a plunge through the heart.

Charlemund slapped Adamat’s sword away with the tap of his own and stepped forward. He thrust twice. Adamat stumbled backward to avoid the stabs. He recovered his footing and tried to raise his sword. His arm would not obey him. A quick glance down saw the red stains spreading in two dark circles on his coat. One was just over his heart, the other on his shoulder. Adamat felt his body sag, weakened by the sudden anticipation of death.

Charlemund spun away from Adamat, barely parrying a sword thrust. Tamas’s bodyguard pressed upon the arch-diocel, attacking with ferocity. Charlemund danced away from Adamat and Olem, into the middle of the gravel walk for clear footing. Olem sprinted after him, sword first, not giving him a moment’s respite.

Adamat stumbled to a rock in the garden and sat down. He gripped his sword weakly with one hand, checked his wounds with the other. He shoved his fist into the worst of his two wounds. His head spun, though he couldn’t be sure whether it was because of his losing blood that fast or if it was simply from the excitement of the duel and the prospect of death. He watched Olem with a light-headed exhilaration. If Olem fell, Charlemund would kill them both and make his escape.

Olem was clearly a better fighter than Adamat. He went at Charlemund with the reckless bravery of a soldier, a man whose life was dedicated to the sword and the gun. Olem’s swordsmanship was less controlled than the arch-diocel’s, less clinical, but he made up for that in savagery. His teeth were clenched, his eyes lit with anger, determination, his off hand balanced carefully in the air over his hip. Charlemund took a few more steps back, the onslaught catching him off guard, before he regained his footing and began to press his own attack.

Adamat watched as Charlemund studied Olem’s patterns, tracking every movement carefully. His face lacked Olem’s sense of determination—it contained the quiet, reserved watchfulness of a student in his favorite class. Olem’s thrusts slowly became easier for Charlemund to counter, his parries less effective. Charlemund wasn’t just fighting, Adamat realized. He was learning as he went, adapting to Adamat’s moves. This was how a master dueled, and Adamat had never seen anything like it. Olem continued to lose ground.

The duel could have been hours, as Adamat felt it, though he knew that only moments had passed. Olem retreated farther, and the two duelists moved past Adamat and closer to the carriage. Olem held his ground there for several seconds, sweat beading on his brow, eyes desperate for some opening. His face was easy for Adamat to read. He was growing tired, worried. He could not keep up with Charlemund.

He saw one, finally, and lunged. His cut nicked Charlemund’s side as the arch-diocel stepped aside. A dagger appeared in Charlemund’s off hand, and he stabbed Olem between the ribs. Olem’s eyes widened, his sword falling from his hand. Charlemund stepped away and drew his sword back for a finishing thrust.

Adamat looked away. We’re finished.

Olem coughed out a laugh, drawing Adamat’s attention. Charlemund paused.

“You’ve worse than me to face,” Olem said.

Charlemund gave a quick glance toward the villa. He left Olem in the dirt and ran for the carriage. “Go!” he said, leaping onto the sideboard.

“Don’t do it!” Adamat called to Siemone.

The priest huddled on the driver’s bench, reins in hand. His arms shook. He didn’t move.

“Go,” Charlemund commanded.

Adamat thought Siemone was about to snap the reins. The priest looked toward the heavens, then at his hands. His lips moved silently.

“Fool,” Charlemund said. He swung up the sideboard and into the seat next to Siemone.

The priest cringed away from him. “I can’t do it,” he wailed.

Charlemund pushed him from the seat. Siemone gave a yell and tumbled from his perch. He hit the ground with the sound of a melon being split open and then lay still.

“Coward.”

The word wasn’t spoken loudly, yet it drew Charlemund and Adamat’s gazes all the same. Tamas stood on the back step of the villa, just above the garden. He leaned heavily on an air rifle, barrel down, in place of his cane. He looked like an old man then, tired and beleaguered. The front of his uniform was soaked in blood. Adamat remembered the mage’s quarters in Skyline Palace, and the specks that had covered Tamas then. He shuddered.

Charlemund hesitated. The reins were in his hands, and though he obviously wanted to snap them and make a run for it some kind of morbid curiosity held him back.

Adamat forced himself to his feet. He stumbled, winced at the pain, his head feeling light. He snagged the horse’s bridle. “No,” he said.

Charlemund barely seemed to notice him. The arch-diocel’s eyes were on Tamas.

“I see you’ve taken care of the good duke,” Charlemund said. He stood up, dropping the reins, and jumped from the driver’s bench. He landed in a crouch, stood up, and straightened. Adamat felt his heart beat faster.

Tamas seemed unimpressed. “He’s still alive,” he said. “He wishes he wasn’t. I have a lot of plans for him.” Tamas took the steps down into the garden slowly, leaning on the air rifle. “For you, too,” he said.

Charlemund drew his sword. “You’re out of powder,” he said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking. You’re not afraid of my title, of the repercussions. You’d have put a bullet in my head from inside the house. Did Nikslaus use up all your reserves?”

Tamas’s face was iron.

“If you had any honor at all,” Charlemund said, “you’d be on your way to South Pike right now to sacrifice yourself to Kresimir in hopes of saving this country.”

“That’s rich,” Tamas said. “Coming from a traitor.”

“What are you going to do to me, Tamas?” Charlemund said. “On your best day you aren’t the swordsman I am.” Charlemund broke into a sudden sprint, rushing headlong toward Tamas, arms thrown back like the wings of a bird of prey.

Tamas let the air rifle drop from beneath his arm. He drew his sword, planting his bad leg back, wincing as he did so. Adamat took a sharp breath. That leg had been shattered. Tamas wouldn’t be able to maneuver. On a good day, he may have come close to matching Charlemund. As it was, a duel would be laughable.

Charlemund lunged forward, thrusting savagely as he closed with Tamas. Tamas parried, their blades crossed, and Charlemund was behind Tamas, spinning to give a death-dealing blow before Tamas could bring himself around on the bad leg. Charlemund’s shout of victory died in his throat, his eyes falling toward his sword.

The black smoke of gunpowder hung in the air by Tamas’s off hand. He opened his fist and let the burned wrappings of a powder charge fall to the ground, next to the blade of Charlemund’s sword. Charlemund stared at his swordless hilt. His face twisted in fury, eyes alight. He threw the hilt and leapt toward Tamas, who’d turned slowly to face him.

The thrown hilt hit Tamas’s forehead, leaving a shallow cut. He blinked, and thrust forward once, his off hand on his hip in a duelist’s pose. Charlemund’s own momentum carried him a handspan onto the steel. Tamas pulled back, stabbed again, then again. Charlemund stumbled away, clutching at the wounds, the crimson soaking into his pristine uniform. He staggered up against the carriage, one hand reaching, grasping at nothing. He slid down onto the gravel.

Adamat swallowed hard. Charlemund’s wounds didn’t look fatal, but there were several of them. He’d bleed out slowly, painfully—if Tamas let him. Tamas didn’t make any move to help, nor call out for his soldiers. He simply watched as Charlemund tried to stem the blood flow, hands shaking. Tamas wiped the blood from his sword on Charlemund’s discarded cape and sheathed it.

Adamat’s own wounds were bad, but he judged them survivable if he bound them better. He shrugged the thought off and went to squat down beside Siemone’s limp body. The priest’s neck had been broken in the fall. His eyes stared sightlessly off into a pasture, mouth open in a cry of despair. Adamat closed the eyes with his fingertips. He stood up and walked around to the other side of the carriage.

Olem and Tamas leaned upon each other, heads together in a conference. Tamas once again held the air rifle as a cane. They both looked to Adamat. “Olem says you delayed Charlemund just long enough for him to catch up.” Tamas gave him a slow nod. “You have my thanks.”

Adamat licked dry lips. Neither had a look of suspicion, an accusation on their lips. Why not? Adamat’s warning to Lord Vetas had just caused the deaths of a number of Tamas’s soldiers. They had yet to realize why he was there at all.

“Sir,” Adamat said. “I’m sorry. But my family…”

Tamas returned to the inside of the manor. Wardens and Church guards lay about, dead. He marveled at the perfect kills—bullets to the heart or the head, easy hits in the close proximity of a house. Blood pooled thick on the marble floors, making them slick. He found an ivory parasol stand in the corner of the foyer and appropriated a real cane, leaning the air rifle up against the wall.

Nikslaus was gone. Tamas bit the inside of his cheek, fighting against welling frustration. He’d left the Privileged lying on the ground writhing in pain. A blood trail led from that spot off to a side room. Tamas didn’t have enough men to tend to the wounded and organize a search. He closed his eyes and limped off after the blood trail.

Adamat. What would Tamas do with the inspector? He’d confessed to betraying Tamas and Adro to this Lord Vetas and his master, Lord Claremonte. How many powerful enemies could Tamas have? Adamat was ultimately responsible for Sabon’s death. Or was he? According to Adamat, the warning was sent to Charlemund just ahead of Adamat himself. Charlemund had more than just a few moments to marshal his defenses.

The pain in his leg increased as his powder trance began to fade. It would take a while for the trance to fade completely, and he’d be able to stand for a few hours yet, with the help of a cane. When that time was over, the agony would be so great he’d be lucky to even be able to stand.

Dr. Petrik would be furious. Tamas may have damaged his leg irreparably, fighting on it like he did. Foolishness.

The blood trail led through two rooms, two separate worlds of expensive furnishings rarely seen outside of a king’s palace. Ivory-bone chairs from the horns of Fatrastan animals, pelts and taxidermied big cats from the farthest jungles. A squat table chiseled from a single piece of pure obsidian. The skeleton of a long-dead lizard as big as a horse. Artwork from every corner of the world, sculptures from before the Time of Kresimir.

The blood trail led to a servant’s door out onto a small patio. Tamas examined the area cautiously. He didn’t know if they’d accounted for all the Wardens. He glimpsed movement out across a pasture. A stable door opened, and a pair of horses galloped out, swinging out around the barn and away from the villa. In his powder trance Tamas could see the makeshift bandages on Nikslaus’s hands, the writhing muscles of the Warden who led his horse. Nikslaus glanced back toward the villa nervously. Tamas watched until the pair was out of sight.

All of this was for naught if Julene manages to summon Kresimir.

“I can’t find Nikslaus,” Olem said.

Tamas turned. The soldier had not even attended to his own wounds. He stood straight as he could, trying to meet Tamas’s eyes. He did not hide his pain well, which meant there was a lot of it. He fumbled in his shirt jacket for rolling paper and tobacco. They almost slipped out of his blood-slick fingers. Tamas took them from him and rolled Olem a cigarette, then lit it with a match from Olem’s breast pocket. Olem took a puff and smiled gratefully.

“Attend to the wounded,” Tamas said. “Nikslaus is not a threat anymore. Attend to yourself first. You did well, my friend.”

“But Nikslaus…” Olem said.

“My vengeance will be that he continues to live,” Tamas said. He smiled, and he knew it was tinted with cruelty. “That will be enough.”