Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Read online

  The assailants saw the balance shift and attacked. “Give me room,” Whitt shouted, loping forward. His staff whipped, cracked into an unsuspecting skull, tucked into his armpit, and flipped up, thwacking the same man on his chin. One down. He twisted high, the stick snapping from one shoulder to another, the end rapping down on a man’s exposed pate. A tick later, the other end smashed into the thug’s ear as the staff returned to his ready stance.

  To his left, Gannon took an elbow to the jaw, and Tiler hammered a fist into the assailant’s throat. A knife came out of nowhere, slashed at Whitt’s face, and opened a gash over his eye. He stumbled backward and flipped the end of his staff up. The man intercepted it and held on. Whitt twisted and powered a boot into the nearest knee. Off balance, the kick lacked the strength to injure, but it bought him time. He wiped a sleeve across his eye, blood blinding him as he retreated. His staff still fixed in the man’s grasp, Whitt released it and drew his knife. Out of nowhere, a fist the size of a ham thundered into his opponent’s temple, and the fellow crumpled as though the punch had powdered his bones.

  Whitt blinked and swabbed at the blood. Tiler stood in front of him, panting, a grimace of pain on his mug and his eye swollen shut. They were the only two there if Whitt didn’t count the four men kissing the dirt.

  “Who the glistering spank-wit are you?” Tiler asked.

  “Whitt, from Mur-Vallis.” He held his sleeve to his forehead. “Tiler, I need to speak with Gannon.”

  “Scrawny warrens Whitt?” Tiler narrowed the one eye that wasn’t a puffy slit. “What for?”

  “Because we’re on the same side, assjacker.” Whitt wiped at the blood on his sleeve. He was due for stitches.

  Tiler grinned. “Where you staying?”

  “Craftsman’s Cup.”

  “Head back there and sit tight, turd-wad. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Whitt picked up his staff and walked back to the Craftsman’s Cup. Before he retired to his room, he paid the barkeep for a cup of spike. “Two men might come here asking for me. One is an enforcer with tufted hair, built like a crag bear. The other one is Gannon. Send them up.”

  The barkeep nodded. “You need my bond mate to sew you up?”

  “If she’s willing. And a meal and hot water for a wash.” He palmed over a clipped silver, and the man handed a full bottle over the bar.

  An hour later, when the knock came, Whitt lay on his rented cot, forehead stitched and eyes closed. He pulled the chair from the door and let Tiler in, Gannon behind him. With the chair wedged under the latch once again, he faced his guests.

  “I didn’t recognize you.” Gannon claimed the only other seat.

  “Eight years is a long time.” Whitt grabbed the bottle of spike from the clothes chest and offered it to Gannon who passed it to Tiler. “Tiler told me you were dead.”

  “Hard to kill,” Gannon said, a hand raking his black curls. “And Catling? Is she safe?”

  Whitt nodded and sank to the bed’s edge. “She’s the queen’s shield… and her influencer.”

  Gannon’s brow creased. “I didn’t know.”

  “You should have left us alone at the stead,” Whitt said. “None of this would have happened if you’d let us be.”

  “I can’t undo it, even if I wanted to.” Gannon leaned back, tipping the chair onto its rear legs. “And trust me, I’d want to.”

  “We lost Farrow.” Tiler crossed his beefy arms and leaned on the wall. “Remember her?”

  “Well enough,” Whitt said, a woman with red hair wandering into his head. “She helped me escape Mur-Vallis.”

  The enforcer nodded. “Two years ago, I found her tucked in her bed, dead as they come.”

  Gannon set all four legs of his chair on the floor. “You asked to meet. I’m guessing it’s more than to scold me for the past.”

  Whitt cleared his head and leaned forward. He pulled up his bloodied sleeve revealing Guardian’s dagger inked into his forearm. “I accompanied Commander Jagur to Elan-Sia. The queen believes Ellegeance is under threat, and everything I’ve seen supports her opinion that the high wards intend to divide the realm.”

  “Lelaine always struck me as resourceful.” Gannon chuckled.

  “We face serious problems in the Far Wolds and splitting our force reduces our effectiveness on all fronts. The commander sent me here to see if the threats are real.”

  “They’re real,” Tiler muttered. “Sianna’s a bloodthirsty piff, and Manus is cuddling his nuts over his plans for Rho-Dania.”

  “As far as I can tell,” Whitt said, “Sianna is recruiting from the warrens to build a fighting force in a play for Nor-Bis.”

  “And later Dar-Callin,” Gannon said.

  “I suspected as much.” Whitt scratched the scruff on his chin. “If I’m reading it right, Manus is planning the same here. Yet he’s also infiltrating Rho-Dania’s warrens and inciting an uprising against the tiers. What’s he promising?”

  “Lies,” Gannon said. “Nothing that will last. A livelihood made on blood, and when it’s over, nothing. You didn’t mention Mur-Vallis. Algar’s recruiting a force for protection against the Farlanders. He’s going to stir up your southern stew, but I think it’s a game of shadows. I’d wager he plans to scoop up Se-Vien as soon as the south thaws.”

  Whitt exhaled, the scheming deeper and broader than he’d thought. “Algar wants the south, Sianna the west, and Manus the east.” He peered up at the two men. “You could help us, both of you. You have connections in the warrens, knowledge of the tier cities’ under-workings. You could help preserve the realm.”

  “We’re busy,” Gannon said. “We have our own battle to fight.”

  “If you aid the queen, you might earn your wish for the warrens faster than by fighting a handful of guards and tearing apart taverns.”

  Gannon’s eyebrows twitched up.

  “She might fall for it.” Whitt met the man’s eyes.

  “I need a deal with the queen before I agree,” Gannon said.

  “Fair enough.” Whitt got his feet under him. “We’ll leave for Elan-Sia in the morning.”

  “That may be a little difficult,” Gannon hedged. “I’m a wanted man.”

  “In that case, as a guardian of the Warriors’ Guild, I’m arresting you in the name of the realm and delivering you to the queen for justice.”

  Gannon cracked a tentative smile. “I’m all for justice.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning, Whitt stripped off his faded trousers and kicked the frayed jacket to the room’s corner. From his pack, he removed the rolled garb of the Warriors’ Guild and spread it out on his cot, smoothing the wrinkles with minimal success. Light travel and subterfuge had been his priority, so he hadn’t brought his armor, a choice he hoped he wouldn’t suffer for.

  He pulled on the slate trousers and green shirt. Around his waist, he buckled the darker panels normally worn beneath the tasset plates protecting his thighs. He donned his leather jerkin and the draped belts for his weapons. A cowl covered his head and folded at his neck without the bulk of his mail. Light on his feet, he felt prepared. He jammed his feet into his scuffed boots and headed down to the Craftsman’s Cup.

  Impressive in their mail, chest plates, and vambraces, Cale and Tavor waited for him in the taproom with Gannon and Tiler. Several early risers, green-gilled from the previous night, sucked on mugs of stale tipple. No one appeared as nervous as Whitt felt.

  “Those stitches make you look ornery,” Cale drawled, her cropped brown curls hidden beneath her cowl.

  “I don’t feel ornery,” Whitt said. “Do we have a boat lined up?”

  “A ferry,” Tavor replied, coiling a length of rope. “The commander’s going to bellow when he counts the silver we’ve coughed up on this expedition.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Whitt said though he’d thought the same. “Did you send word to Guardian?”

  “This morning.” Cale sat in a chair and put her heels up on a table. “Told him we�
��d be in Ava-Grea in a week, Elan-Sia in two.”

  Whitt leaned on his staff, eyeing Gannon. “What’s the chance we’ll walk from the warrens without a confrontation?”

  Gannon shrugged. “Most of Manus’s enforcers want my head, but I doubt they’ll take on three guardians to claim it… maybe. Supporters know this is a hoax.”

  “Tier guards aren’t overly fond of us,” Tavor said. “They didn’t fall for the Cull Tarr preacher story. They kept a hawk’s eye on us, and whenever we asked a question, they swallowed their tongues. I’ll admit, though, they were damn curious about where we headed this morning.”

  “Going to be trouble,” Cale predicted.

  “You know too much,” Whitt said to Gannon and began stripping the clothes he’d just pulled on. “Manus isn’t going to let you go. He’s aiming for civil war, and you’re part of it.”

  “What the coddling clodhole are you doing?” Tiler asked when Whitt dropped his trousers.

  “Gannon and I are about the same size,” Whitt pointed out. “We’re switching places. You three are guardians escorting a riverman guilty of theft in Elan-Sia.”

  Gannon kicked off his boots and unbuttoned his shirt.

  “What about me?” Tiler asked. “The nut-bashers know me. They’ll figure it’s a trick.”

  “That’s why you’re not coming with us.” Gannon pulled on Whitt’s shirt.

  “No filching way, Gan.” Tiler shook his head. “You’re not ditching me again. I didn’t come all the way to this bung dump to get shafted.”

  “Follow us tomorrow.” Whitt tossed Tiler a silver coin that the enforcer watched sail by. “We’ll wait for you in Ava-Grea.”

  Tiler raised a fist. “Listen pig-slapper, you’re not—”

  “Tiler,” Gannon barked and pulled on Whitt’s jerkin. “It’s a good plan. We might just escape this… bung dump with our heads.”

  Cale got up and fetched the coin that had rolled to the wall. She handed it to Tiler. “See you in Ava-Grea.”

  The transformation ended with Whitt and Gannon wearing their own boots. Whitt slipped a knife into his boot’s sheath and inspected Gannon’s attire, pulling the cowl lower on his forehead. “You’ll pass as a guardian.” He turned to Tavor. “Tie my hands. Gannon will lead me out. You and Cale handle the tier guards.”

  Tavor tied a loose loop. “Apply a little pressure, and you’ll slip out.”

  “What about influencers?” Whitt asked, the complication hitting him between the eyes. “Will Manus have influencers out there?”

  “I’d wager on at least one.” Gannon canted his head toward Tiler. “Tiler will handle it.”

  “Oh, now everyone needs the big sodder’s help.” Tiler rolled his eyes. “I’ve a mind to force you nut-wits to beg.”

  “He’ll do it,” Gannon said with a smile.

  “I guess I better get out there and pop a couple influencers,” Tiler muttered and stomped off.

  Gannon faced the rest of them. “If the influence hits, remember that what you’re feeling isn’t real. Stay in your head; focus on the goal. The point is to reach the ferry.”

  “Anything else?” Tavor asked, and when no one replied, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

  His eyes narrowed, Whitt mugged a baleful scowl and met every gawking onlooker with a sneer. Gannon walked behind him, and Tavor and Cale marched in the lead, official in bearing and snarling at anyone in their path. Tavor carried Whitt’s staff and knew how to wield it. Most of the faces they encountered in the dim light looked genuinely confused, falling in line somewhere to the rear.

  The party paused briefly beneath the tier’s rim to let their eyes adjust to the light. All three guardians tugged their cowls forward. Whitt squinted, a shudder scaling his back as if he were truly a wanted man walking a dead-end path.

  A score of tier guards fanned out across the quay at the market’s edge. Tavor glanced back. “Ferry’s on the second pier, toward the end.” He and Cale marched into the morning light. Whitt walked behind them and staggered when Gannon shoved him on the back. The guards exchanged glances, their brows furrowed. A nervous giddiness tickled Whitt’s throat, and he tried not to laugh.

  “Influence,” Gannon murmured. “Focus on the ferry.”

  “Stand aside, friends,” Tavor ordered as he and Cale neared the curious crowd and gathering line of guards. “Prisoner of Guardian.”

  “Must be a dire crime.” A guard stepped in front of Cale. He wore third-rank chains on his dusky jacket. Cale bent over and laughed.

  Tavor swung in beside her and dropped back his cowl, offering a genial smile. He slapped a hand on the officer’s shoulder, and the man stepped back at the sociable advance. The move created a hole in the guards’ line that Whitt stumbled through with Gannon poking at his back.

  “Stole from the royal coffers,” Tavor said. “We tracked him here two days ago, and we’re delivering him to Elan-Sia for the queen’s justice. Probably feed him to the maws.”

  Whitt spun around, the suggestion striking him as hilarious. He walked backward down the pier, Gannon pulling his arm. Across the market, Tiler jogged up the ramp to the first tier. “It’s not real,” Gannon whispered.

  “Why is Guardian involved?” the officer asked. “Why not the Queen’s Guard?”

  “Ah.” Tavor scratched his bald head. “Good question.”

  “Get them.” The officer waved his guards forward. “I’ll question the prisoner.”

  Whitt smiled, ready to comply, when he spotted Tiler punching a man in the side of his head. Whitt’s pleasant mood plummeted. “We’re in trouble.”

  Gannon shoved him down the pier. “Are they coming?”

  “About six of them,” Whitt whispered. “Cale’s on their heels.”

  Tavor’s voice rose over the growing commotion, the amiable smile gone. “Cale! Bring the prisoner forward.”

  Whitt and Gannon waited as Cale jogged toward them, jostling her way through the cluster of guards. She grabbed Whitt’s arm and threw an order at Gannon, “Tell the ferry’s captain we’re ready to cast off.” None too gently, she thrust Whitt back up the pier toward the guards.

  “The other guardian as well,” the officer shouted.

  “You lack the authority to interfere with Guardian orders,” Tavor barked. “We’re wasting time. Cale, deliver the prisoner to the ferry and secure him for transport.”

  Turning on her heel, Cale yanked Whitt in the opposite direction. Gannon waited on the ferry where the rivermen began casting lines.

  “Stop them!” the officer yelled. Whitt looked back to see the man grab ahold of Tavor’s staff. In one fluid motion, Tavor planted a foot at the weapon’s grounded end and slammed the free end into the man’s face. He ripped the staff from the unwanted grip, crouched, and swept the guard’s legs out from under him. The stick flipped up as Tavor rose and cracked another man on the chin.

  The market’s nearest edge erupted. Tiler bellowed in the midst of an unleashed mob and belted a guard with an uppercut that surely rattled a few teeth.

  His bindings slipped, Whitt extracted his knife and dashed toward Cale who faced six charging men. Gannon ran to Whitt’s side, a dagger in his fist. At the pier’s other end, Tavor sprinted toward the guards’ backs, his tail free of pursuit with Tiler’s melee firing up on the quay.

  Cale dove, curled, and rolled, tripping a shocked guard who stumbled and teetered over the cold river. She leapt to her feet, tapped the man into the water, and jumped sideways to escape a disemboweling slash to her gut. Tavor’s staff returned the favor, punching the offender in the stomach and relieving him of a lungful of air.

  A snarling bear of a guard crashed into Whitt, mere body weight knocking him from his feet. His knife glanced off the guard’s ribs. The man seized Whitt’s wrist and smashed it against the pier. With his free hand, he pummeled Whitt’s face, knuckles pounding into his nose and stitched forehead. Whitt pressed his free hand to the brute’s face, fingers digging for the scrunched eyes, his reach too shy to i
nflict damage.

  Blood ran into Whitt’s eyes. Then the weight lifted. The man reared as Gannon stabbed him in the back. Whitt squirmed out from under the roaring guard. Tavor’s staff smashed into the man’s temple, sending him from the pier into the Wiseling’s current. Gannon grabbed Whitt’s arm, hauled him to his feet, and half-dragged him onto the ferry as it pushed from the pier.

  The ferry’s captain stormed across the deck. “Founders’ foul! Gods damned blood bath! Man the oars before they sink us. Heave ho.” The oarsmen pulled, grunting with the effort. The red-faced captain raised a fist to Tavor’s face. “Your fare just went up.”

  Tavor reached into a pocket and withdrew a half-gold coin. He snapped it before the captain’s eyes. “Compliments of the queen if you get us to Elan-Sia.”

  The captain snatched the glitter from Tavor’s fingers, and shouted at the crew, “Backs into it. We’re on to Elan-Sia. Harness us a second waterdragon and let’s see this ferry fly.” The native rivermaster set his feet at the bow and raised his coiled lasso.

  Blood smeared Whitt’s face, his stitches ripped and nose leaking. The city’s market churned, the guards well occupied by Tiler’s riot. He tore a sleeve from his shirt, dipped it into the river’s luminescence, and held it to his forehead. He stood up and pointed at the pier they’d left behind. “Look at this.”

  Tiler sprinted down the planking like a bull, beefy arms pumping, and belly bouncing. Two guards raced after him, hot on his heels. He reached the pier’s end, flew over a moored skiff, and landed in the frigid water with a fountain of light. His head surfaced and he began to swim.

  “Slow down, Captain,” Gannon said with a smile. “We have one more passenger.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kadan stood on a jutting ledge at the convergence of the Blackwater and Slipsilver. Below him, the rivers met in a roiling opalescence of froth, light, and liquid power. The onset of Winterchill papered the soil with ice-crusted leaves, and the air nipped, glowering clouds hanging heavy with snow.