Twenty-Six

Lay of the Land

A good few hours passed and the pair sat in a booth, de-cloaked and thoughtful.

“You understand the plan?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Yea gads, for the umpteenth time, yes.”

“Good, because we only get one chance here. It’s either him or us, got that?” 

Emalus adopted a more serious expression. “Yes, I understand.” He nodded solemnly. “I can’t thank you enough for this,” he went on. “I’d be dead by now if you’d left me to my own devices.”

“You still could be if we don’t pull this off.”

“I won’t let you down, m’lady.”

“It wouldn’t be me you’d be letting down. After all, it’s not my revenge.” Or is it...? “One last time then – we wait for him to make himself merry and turn in. I’ll sit here and make sure no one follows you, then you do what has to be done and we walk out of here. No one shall know until morning, by which time we shall be far away. Have you given any thought to where you shall go from here?”

Emalus shook his head slowly. “No, but my work shall be done with this. What shall it matter after that whether I live or die? I shall just ride and keep riding.”

Gratia studied him for a moment. He was deep in his own thoughts. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to pity him, as that would be like pitying herself, however, she placed a hand on his and squeezed it reassuringly.

That night she lay awake, thinking. There was more resting on this killing then his wife. Something about him made her stomach churn. Although his situation was a world of difference to what hers had been, there was something very familiar about it. A sort of good-verses-evil that remained the same no matter how many continents you travelled and generations you produced; it was a universal language. For Emalus it was clear revenge, but for Gratia it held something else – a righting of a wrong? She wasn’t entirely sure. 

Over the past few days in Imandilas, she had become more preoccupied with her own thoughts. Most were about Gale: the time they had spent together, both good and not so good. It occurred to her that she hadn’t truly cried over what had happened. True, the first morning of his murder she had been in hysteria, but that was a reaction to the corpse in her bed, the face of which her memory had completely blocked. The tears had not been true sorrow for the loss of a lover – she had been in shock.

Then she began to wonder why that was. Did it mean she had never truly loved him? No, she knew that could not be true. She had loved him more then the waking world. Even in the darkness of her cell she had not mourned for him properly, and yet she had not been that preoccupied with her own death. In fact, lying there now, she could not remember what she had been thinking about then. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right place to have started such a cruel project, but then where was? This thought stayed with her as the curtains of sleep drew in.

It was pitch black – something had woken her. 

Lying very still, her awareness sharpened and her breathing became tight. Not quite certain what had pulled her from her rest, she slowly allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark. Nothing appeared to be moving in the room. Slipping her hand like a snake under the pillow, she clasped her silver blade tightly in a fist-like grip and waited. 

Nothing.

Leaning herself up on one elbow, it appeared that she may have been imagining things.

There was a click! 

Gratia flopped back onto the sheets and half closed her eyes. A sliver of light shot across the stained wooden floor, then vanished once more. In that brief moment, Gratia tightly shut her eyes so as not to allow light spots to blind her night vision, which would leave her at a disadvantage to her intruder. The boards creaked lightly under heavy laid footsteps, and there was a muffled cough.

Gratia felt the prickle of perspiration across her forehead as she drew the silhouette of the intruder from the shadows. It wasn’t moving. For what felt like minutes the person stood by the door, silently. Eventually it took a step forward, closer to her bed, then another. Soon she could hear the low, pinched breathing as it knelt down next to her pillow. 

Her grip tightened and she tensed. An arm began to emerge from the darkness, illuminated by the glow from the hall light filtering under the door.

There was a loud yelp and a gasp as someone withdrew a slashed hand. Someone toppled backwards, overbalancing their crouch, and landed heavily on their buttocks. Before that person had the chance to stagger to their feet, Gratia had sprung from the covers and pinned him to the ground, one knee and one hand locking both his wrists to the floor, leaving her other hand to hold the blade to his throat.

There was a whimper.

Leaning her mouth very close to his ear, she whispered sweetly, “Breathe, and I will kill you.”

There came another whimper and a constricted, high-pitched noise which almost sounded like a word.

“What was that, dead man?” she said, almost conversationally, as she pressed the blade tip uncomfortably close to the man’s neck.

“Gratia, please don’t kill me!” came a panicked squeak.

“Emalus!” Gratia said, completely forgetting what she was doing and accidentally allowing the razor-sharp blade to falter an inch, grazing the poor man’s throat.

“Ouch!” the man whimpered, as the gypsy apologetically scrambled off him, allowing him to sit up.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “But what on Alaino’s earth are you doing sneaking up on me in the middle of the night?”

Emalus was still shaking like a leaf, holding one hand to his sore throat and biting back the urge to scream. “I wasn’t sneaking about. I didn’t realise you were awake.”

“I wasn’t until you decided to break in. You’ll never make a thief.”

“I wouldn’t want to!” he protested.

“Hmm, so what were you doing here?”

“I came to try and wake you up.”

“Well you certainly managed that,” she grumbled. “Why?”

“Becau–”

Before he had a chance to answer that, there came the most almighty clatter from the courtyard. Startled, Gratia leaped to her feet and ran to the window. Far down below, in the courtyard, seven or eight horses were being dismounted and the walls of the stables were illuminated by a dozen torches and lamps. There were shouts and waving going on, and a young stable-hand was running himself dizzy trying to see to all of the men at once.

“What in the world?” Gratia uttered.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you about. They’re here!”

“They can’t be!”

“But they are, look! They’ve come early.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Why would they have ridden all night just to get here?”

“I don’t know, but they have.”

She continued to gaze down. “There’s hundreds of them. The landlord said there were only four rooms reserved.”

“So, bunks no doubt. Two or three to a room.”

Gratia felt a lump rising in her throat. The men were big, bear-like creatures dressed in black and navy coats with the emblem of the Imandilas Fifth Legion tattooed on the front. Every horse wore a metal headdress with a plume of fine red feathers, as well as a pike or spear of some kind in a sheath alongside the saddle.

Slowly, Emalus got to his feet and joined her at the window. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, neither one moving. Eventually she gave a resigned sigh and asked, “which one is Demivolsh?”

“I can’t see him,” he replied, peering over at the stables. “But he must be there somewhere.”

As each man was eventually freed of his horse, they made their way to the tavern door. Soon there were only three men left in the courtyard, all of them over 5'9, and all of them with wide barrel chests and gruff faces.

“What are they doing?” Gratia hissed, watching them strolling around the cobbled yard.

Emalus gave a shrug. “Searching, I expect.”

“What for?”

“Assassins.” He gave a snort and shrugged again, a slight smile crossing his lips.

“That isn’t funny.”

A sudden chill shot up Gratia’s spine and her entire body froze as she felt the cold blade press hard against her back.

“No, and neither is this,” said Emalus in a whisper barely audible.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Gratia turned her head to stare at the man by her side. Already she could hear the sound of boots on the wooden steps outside the room.

The face she looked into seemed so different. His wide-eyed innocent stare had become a cold, lizard-like gaze, a glint of humour playing at the corners. His grim expression was now a calm leer, the veins in his forehead clearly visible.

“You bastard,” she uttered through gritted teeth.

“So it would appear, m’lady,” he sneered.

The door burst open and four huge men stood in full armour, battle machetes drawn.