Venator, Page 23

  Lorin didn't know what to say—she was giddy now and her sudden change was striking. Lorin smiled. "Don't ever wash me." Then he closed the door.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  When he awoke in the early afternoon, a doctor was at the foot of his bed. She nodded and pointed to a glass filled with clear water. Lorin drained it and sat up, making muscles that had previously been silent announce themselves. He ran his hands over his scraps and cuts, and felt them, now bandaged, flare warm and numb to his touch. She set down a small vial of green liquid beside the empty glass and left the room. It tasted like fingernails after a day of garden work, but once the vial was emptied most of the soreness left his muscles and joints. After he dressed, avoiding the looking glass in his room, he left and walked down to the main bar and eating area. The entrance door was barred shut and every window shuttered. The room was dark, but sporadic sun-rays accompanied by a few well-placed lanterns cut through and created an audience of shadows along the walls. Gretta was behind the bar, and Lorin could feel in the air no one else was in the building. She squinted at Lorin, or maybe it was a smile.

  "How possible is it to get a wedding invitation?" Lorin asked after finishing off a thick ale.

  "The whole city is invited," she said, taking the now-empty plate from him and refilling his drink. "The ceremony, though, is different, but the ones that will be attending that won’t need invitations. They will be known well enough that their faces will get them in."

  "My face won't help with that." Lorin took sip of his new tankard and stared out. "Bring a tailor back when you go out; I'll need something made in case I'm to attend the wedding."

  "I will. How about an escort as well? A lovely lady on your arm never hurts, and with your coin almost anyone could look past your scars."

  Lorin winced and rubbed at his neck. "No. It's a good suggestion, but not what I have in mind. The ceremony hasn't been changed from noon?"

  "Yes, when the sun is overhead the two will be joined." She recited the words like she had lost herself in them while she spoke. "But word got out that the bride wanted it in private early in the morning. Varron didn't want to buck tradition, though."

  Lorin winced. "Just call him the Baron or groom please. Why would she want it in private and earlier? Subdued is not a word I would use to describe her."

  "Ladies have more cause to be nervous; the groom just has to show up. We are the focus of the day. Besides, their fast romance most likely has made her want to seal the marriage as soon as she can. I don't blame her—I would like a quick trip to his bed as well."

  "The wedding will be in their estate home?"

  "No, the courtyard. All the guests can fit, they won't be hiding their vows of union, and the banquet can start without moving such a mass of guests."

  "Doesn't seem safe. A good archer could end the ceremony easily."

  Gretta dropped the plate she had been wiping. It didn't break, but her face cracked like porcelain. "Don't be saying something like that, a cloud should be forever on one who defiles a wedding with murder. Everyone can see the beauty they make together."

  "I'm sure." Lorin set the tankard down. "Don't forget the tailor, but also ask around about the wedding. Any news is good to me."

  "I plan to head out for some errands soon. I know a baker, and her son is one of the estate's guards. She loves to talk about him."

  "Thanks, I'll be here."

  The innkeeper departed soon after. She had left Lorin enough food for a week and full run of the bar while she was gone. He hadn't counted out the coin purse he’d thrown to her, but it must've been well worth it. He still had plenty, and now that he was alone, he poured out his funds on the bar top. Separating the coin was a mindless task, but he needed to focus on something, anything. The coins each had a crown stamped on one end and a profile of someone important with a round forehead and hooked beak of a nose. As he slid a pair of coins to their pile one of the faces turned and looked at him. His daughter's smile was etched in the metal—he blinked, and the stamping once again looked like the cloned imprint of the others. Pushing away from the bar, he stood straight, then shook his head. A deep breath and a stretch helped clear his thoughts. He rolled his head side-to-side, hearing and feeling each pop and snap, but then he saw something in the corner of the room.

  An old man, mouth open, with blood staining his naked skin. Gunter. After the moment it took for his eyes to catch up to his mind, Lorin picked up his mug and threw it. The ale hit its mark and splashed on the empty chair. Lorin put his head in his hands, he could see the old, lifeless body of Gunter. Then he saw the two men in the alley as flies buzzed and waded through the pooling blood. He wanted to scream. His heart and stomach felt leaden, forcefully being pulled through the soles of his feet.

  "They deserved it," he said, though his voice cracked. A weight lifted, like each syllable had unhooked a chain wrapped tight around him. He saw the three children smiling as they walked away from the shop.

  "They deserved it." His chest rose from the depths.

  "They deserved it. What I did wasn't cruel. They deserved it." The weight in his stomach was nearly gone, and his words felt powerful in the room. Then, he saw his family.

  They sat at an empty table, some cards in hand, and others neatly placed on the table-top. His children laughed when Jessica placed a card. Sam cheered in triumph, then threw his hand of cards over the pile and ran laps around the table. Sarah shook her head—her brother didn't understand the rules—but Jessica reached her arm around her and the two shared a smile.

  Lorin wanted nothing more than to take that empty seat and to join them. It felt right. It was easier than breathing. They were right there. His family. His life. But he knew they were gone. It was like a heavy darkness inside himself. They were gone. Dead and buried. Nothing could change that, nothing could ever change that. It was an old wound never healing, but now there was a new cold pang alongside it. He’d murdered people. He had taken their lives from them, and he may have robbed a son of a father or wife of her husband.

  He stood up, walked to the table with his family, and reached out with an unsteady hand to touch his wife's face. He kissed her once, then kissed the top of his children's heads and embraced all three.

  "Stay with us, we need you." His wife's eyes were wet. He felt a grip on his leg as his son hugged him tight and mumbled into his pant leg. His daughter sat with her head down, crying. Lorin stayed among his family for as long as he could, but it would never be long enough. He looked up to see Gunter and the two thugs hanging from the rafters, hemp rope around their necks

  "You could be with them," Gunter said. "But you killed us instead. Murderer."

  "Murderer," the two beside him began to chant. All three joined together in a death wail.

  "Murderer. Murderer. Murderer."

  Lorin looked back down at his family who were still overjoyed to be around him. His wife lifted a rope from under the table tied in that oh-so-familiar knot.

  "Come back to us," his little girl said, finally looking up. "Please, Dad, I miss you. We miss you."

  "Murderer."

  "We can be a family again."

  "Murderer."

  "Never to separate."

  "Murderer."

  "Please, Dad, I want to see you again."

  "I…" His eyes flashed white and he lifted his head from the bar, wiping spittle from the side of his mouth. The few coins that had stuck to his face gave up their hold and clanked on the stained bar. His eyes widened and he turned, but the room was empty. No chanting corpses. No loving family. Just him in an empty room, except now—atop the table where his family had been—was a coil of rope. Lorin walked over and picked it up, feeling the coarse fibers between his fingers. He untied the knot, rolled the rope up again, and threw it to a corner of the room. Lorin sat back at the bar, poured a new drink, and began to plan.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The air was cool, and it crackled. His skin had broken out in a heat-less sweat since dusk, and every
bit of it tingled. Each muscle felt aged, as if years had passed instead of hours. He was twenty paces from where he planned to scale the wall, behind a patch of brush and lines of drying clothes which kept him covered from sight. Most of the night he watched and timed the bobbing atop the wall. On those nights he’d watched from his cell, a torch would make its way across the wall every five to ten minutes, but this morning, a two-minute window was the best he would get. The routine brought back memories of Ashmere—pointed memories, sharp as a spear when Lorin needed to focus. With a hard punch into the ground and a gritting of his teeth, he let his pain flush through enough to get a clear mind. Each day, hour, and almost every minute came with it a constant struggle to keep the ones he’d lost from overwhelming him. This was the big day and he needed every part of himself present.

  The moon was full and had kept the night in a violent brightness, but now the sun was beginning to rise. It made long shadows appear, and though the day was brightening, the added glow created a mix of light and shadow that obscured more than it revealed. With torches burning close to their eyes, the guards atop the wall would be blind in the twilight. Lorin was all but invisible when motionless. In the coming time of action, though, his preparation and equipment would take center stage.

  The armor from the old man's odds-and-ends store was colored subtly enough to be hard to spot, and the tailor, a master craftsman in talent and price, had made each piece fit like a second skin. The cost of the tailor's work had been worth it, and each leather part glided silently when he moved.

  A duo passed, the only recognizable pair—one tall sentry matched with a short one. They were easy to spot and right on time. Lorin waited for the torch to pass a brick in the wall that he mentally marked. The light just reached its mark, and he felt his whole body tingle from anticipation. Seeing three steps ahead before he took the first, he bolted across the open ground. Before the final steps to the wall’s edge, he pressed the button on his trinket and the bow sprung taut. Next, he fired the prepared arrow in one practiced motion on his final step at the wall's base. The Stagger Inn had plenty of new holes in its veranda from practicing this move, but each one had been well worth it. The wall wasn't taller than a one-and-a-half story building at this spot, but its outward face had been worn smooth by rain and time. It was an impossible climb without a sturdy anchor and rope, but despite the extra drag on the arrow, it carried more than enough power to force itself into the wall's mortar.

  Just like that he was up and over, with the tall and short pair not far down the path to his left. He looked right for the currently unseen pair making their way closer to him and made sure they wouldn’t see any indication of him as he found a way down from the wall. Back in the familiar territory of the inner walls, Lorin lost himself in the routine. An uneven stone here, a discolored brick there, and the path he and Ashmere had taken so many times glowed bright. As he neared the door where they would always exit in the late night, Lorin's heart finally began to slow to an even pace. Scaling the wall unseen had been the most unknown part of the plan, and with that over, the thought of stalking prey through less-guarded halls felt exhilarating. After so long, relief from his inner despair was close, and he physically slowed himself to stay on task. That feeling lasted only a few steps when he saw the new guard.

  To be sure, the guard wasn't entirely new. The last time he had seen it, though, it had been perched above where the Baron died. Strong, vigilant, and terrifying, the stone gargoyle was now resting on the side of the estate's home—not above the door Lorin was planning to enter, but high up between him and the door.

  Lorin stuck close to the wall, trying to see a way around. There were other doors he could walk to, but they were in busy areas compared to the workers’ access. Less monstrous guards would be posted there, however, and a squad of them would be easier to deal with. He was considering a walk around the perimeter when he looked up the wall above him in thought and saw a window barred with steel rods. Ashmere's old cell window was just above him, and he could reach the roof’s edge if he stepped up from its sill. He had his bow out and his backup arrow tied to the rope as the thought materialized. The arrow was loosed and buried itself to the feathers in the roof's overhang. After collapsing the bow, he tested the rope, and once he saw it held his weight, he reached one hand over the other and began lifting himself.

  An urge just then forced its way to the front of his mind, an unheard scream from within partnered with a tingle like worms slithering under his skin. It was panic, like walking home while encased in darkness, that overbearing urge to run from something unknown. He turned his head to check what felt off, but nothing caught his attention even with the rush of adrenaline narrowing his focus. He looked back up at his climb, feeling his grip begin to cramp. Nothing. He saw nothing. His head spun back to the stone statue overlooking the door. It was gone. Sweat instantly pushed out from his palms, and he realized in that moment between breath and heartbeat, moonlight had turned to shadow.

  The gargoyle slammed above him, twisting and snapping the rope like thread. Its jump sent a rumble through the whole building. Lorin was quick enough to let go and drop before the wing spiked into the wall where his head had been. The ground came fast after his short climb, and though his body reflexively curled to tumble out of the fall, he failed and landed hard.

  Before his breath returned, he was lifted by his ankle that had been caught in rope. The gargoyle's three-toed feet were clamped into the wall and it began pulling him closer. Up close and terrible, Lorin knew it was going to kill him as easily as closing its fist or flicking its finger. The beast was a head and a half taller than him and wide as two men shoulder to shoulder. Its wings spanned out much farther from its chiseled stone body and spines like spear heads ridged them to their tips.

  Lorin reached for one of his stone blades and slashed at the rope around his ankle. There was barely any resistance as the blade cut the hemp, and his clothing, and his skin. He didn't feel the pain, just a splash of warmth around the wound.

  He rolled once he was free, and one of the wingtips missed him, punching a hole into the cobble. He slashed out with his comparably tiny weapon, but the wing was back behind the gargoyle before he could make contact. Lorin knew he was in a bad spot—from his study, gargoyles were notorious for their near invulnerability. Some had been killed, and the methods outlined in the bestiary, but Lorin didn't have access to falling boulders, a colossus from across the Abyss, or a well-aimed trebuchet. He had his knives, arrows, and the unnecessary reinforcements of guards likely coming to aid the loud creature.

  It detached from the wall with its fist aimed to crush him, but Lorin ducked, rolling to its side for distance. A wing put an end to that and smacked him to the ground. Lorin didn't give up. Couldn't. He got to his feet to find the world wobbly under him, but he had time to see the next blow coming and rolled in closer to the beast. A wing tried to wrap around for a hit, but Lorin was shouldered against the gargoyle’s chest. The wing couldn't bend enough, and instead of the squishy human, the wing hit the gargoyle's arm still in mid swing. The sudden dust cloud and spray of pebbles from the blow made Lorin taste chalk and fight for breath. The wing had gouged out a decent chunk just above the stone elbow. The gargoyle bellowed, but it carried no note of pain, more of reproach directed at the wing.

  The dagger in Lorin's hand felt heavy, and his vision and breath were still recovering from his fall. Being in close, though it was dangerous, seemed safer than at wings’ reach, and he would not miss an opportunity. He stabbed the knife in as hard as he could just below the beast’s ribs. There was an unnecessary amount of force in the thrust, however, as the blade slid through the stone like it was burnt parchment. The handle would've buried in deep if not for the sudden stop of Lorin's clenched hand mashing against the living stone. His hand flashed numb, cramped, and clenched on the handle—it would be more painful to open it than to leave it gripped. Even still, throbbing pain screamed as he pushed down and out with the blade. He glanced a
t the blood beginning to pool dark under his skin before returning his attention to the fight.

  The beast pushed him away hard as the chunk of stone Lorin carved off puffed into a fine dust and blew away. It gripped at its now missing hip and waist in a fever, trying to hold some of the sand in place, but most escaped through its hands. It was a desperate attempt, and though the shifting slit beneath the stone exterior hardened near instantly, the chunk remained a void. The gargoyle’s lupine face looked at Lorin, who was now on the ground from its shove, and it spoke. Not with words but a grinding of stone resonating from the cracked lips; it was a rock slide mixed with pouring sand and the occasional clip and spark of flint. What it said was lost on Lorin's untrained ear, but its quartz eyes spoke volumes.

  Lorin worked toward standing. The armor had softened the backhanded shove as well as the slide, but the wind being knocked from him twice in less than a minute made him see sparkles and want to vomit. The gargoyle stood ready, but it only stood and watched. Lorin took the time to stand strong and he knew he looked pitiful, but the gargoyle didn't move toward him. The gargoyle's eyes were locked on his blade and its stone legs looked poised to jump back.

  "Leave," Lorin said, his voice a rasp. "Don't fight."

  The crunch of gravel underfoot and a stone skipped across a stone was its reply.

  "I scared you didn't I?"

  It stood as still as it had on its perch.

  "Do you understand me?"

  The gargoyle clicked its tongue with a spark of flint, followed by a nod of affirmation.

  "Leave." Lorin regained his voice and gestured away. Lorin saw it in the ripple of stone, like parched earth in motion. It flexed to leave, but hesitated and remained. "Fine." Lorin assumed the most basic stance Ashmere had taught him and drew the second dagger from by his ankle.