Promise of Blood

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.