The Thorn of Dentonhill (21 page)

Cole was coming back through the bramble and trees. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“He can't have gone far,” said Sam. Veranix tried to look up, but he couldn't see anything over the lip of the rock. “He lost his special rope.”

“Haw!” Cole laughed coarsely. “Fenmere said something about a rope, right?”

“He said if the Thorn had a rope, we needed to bring it to him,” Pen said. Now that Veranix could really hear him speak, Pen's voice came off as surprisingly eloquent, an accent representing a highborn education.

“Pendall,” Sam said, “Come up here and get the rope off the tree. Coleman and I will keep cover.”

“Cover?” Coleman asked. “I don't see him at all. Maybe he's gone.”

Sam chuckled coldly. “He's there in the dark somewhere. I can hear him breathing.”

Veranix held his breath. Coleman had emerged from the thicket of trees, what little moonlight was available glinting off the knives in his hands.

“He's quiet now,” Coleman said.

“For now,” Sam said. “He's got only one way out, and I've got it covered. Take your time.”

Veranix knew he wasn't invisible, he was only camouflaged into the rock. Even in the darkness, Coleman might see him. Coleman was slowly searching around the rock face, using every sense, stalking him like a cat. Veranix knew he had gotten lucky before, he had the rope before. He thought about trying to summon the rope to him, but from where it was, it would take all his concentration. He'd lose his cover. Coleman was very good with those knives. Veranix didn't have a chance if Coleman found him before he was ready.

Moving as slowly as he could manage, focusing his energy on maintaining his blended cover, he reached behind and unhooked his bow. He took care not to make a single movement too fast, or to make any sound. Coleman was less than twenty feet away, searching in the dark shadows.

“This rope is like steel!” Pendall called from above. “Even I can't uncoil it from the tree.”

“It's got some magic trick to it,” Sam said quietly. He called down toward the statue. “Our boy Thorn knows some magic, doesn't he?”

“Magic ain't nothing,” muttered Coleman. He touched one knife to the rock, and scraped it along, making sparks and an evil noise.

“You hear that, Thorn?” Sam said. “We're not worried about magic. We've killed more than a few magic men.”

There was a great smashing sound from above. Coleman looked up, and Veranix used the moment to get the bow in front of him.

“What the blazes?” Coleman called up.

“I can't get the rope off the tree,” Pendall said. “So I'll get the tree off the rope.” Another great smash, with the crack of wood splintering. Veranix had a hand on an arrow, half pulled from its quiver. Coleman snorted and focused back on the hunt. He was less than fifteen feet away.

“An axe would be faster,” Sam said dryly.

“Do you have one?” Pendall said. Another pounding, splintering blow was heard. Veranix had the arrow out of the quiver. Coleman was close to the wall, sniffing. He had one knife pointing right at Veranix. He was no more than ten feet away from Veranix.

“No,” said Sam. “You have an axe, Thorn? So we can cut this tree down and get your fancy rope?”

“Shh,” hissed Coleman. Veranix had the arrow nocked. Coleman moved closer, along the rock, one blade leading his path. He was only five feet away.

No time left. Veranix pulled back the bow, the strain on the string quite audible.

“What?” Coleman turned, his knife hand already striking out.

Veranix released the arrow, square in Coleman's shoulder. Coleman staggered back. The arrow had barely left the bow, had yet to reach its killing speed, but it gave Veranix the moment he needed. He jumped up, half aided with magic, to the top of the statue and then to the top of the wall. Sam was at the edge, his crossbow still aimed at the thicket. He had only just started to react to the sound when Veranix was already there.

Veranix cracked his bow against Sam's head, a solid blow. Sam, surprised, slipped over the edge. Veranix's bow was ruined, almost snapped in half. He discarded it and turned toward Pendall and the tree. Pendall had hit the tree again. It was split and cracked, almost to the point of falling over. The rope was at his feet, part of it still coiled around the broken tree. Veranix's staff lay between the two of them.

Pendall turned back to Veranix. “I can see you, little Thorn,” he said. “Just barely.”

“So charge, big man,” Veranix said. “Give me a nice, big run, like before.”

“Samael? Coleman?” Pendall called.

“Just you and me, now,” Veranix said.

“That's fine,” said Pendall, chuckling. “Come fight me. I'm the strongest man in Druthal!”

“Was there a contest and no one told me?” Veranix jeered.

“Keep talking, Thorn,” said Pendall. “It will help me find you.”

Veranix breathed a whisper of magic, to make his voice sound like he was moving one way, while he crept the other way to his staff. “I'm serious, Pendall. How can you claim being the strongest man in Druthal when you haven't really tested that? I think that's very presumptuous of you—”

Pendall gave a charging smash to the spot Veranix's voice was coming from, which was ten feet away from where Veranix was. Veranix sprung forward when Pendall charged, grabbing his staff and rolling to where his rope was.

Pendall swung at empty air and turned around to face Veranix, just as Veranix picked up one end of the rope.

“Nice trick,” Pendall said. “You think you can hold me with that rope?”

“Not gonna try,” Veranix said. He pulled on the rope, which was still wrapped around the tree. Pendall had nearly cracked the trunk of the tree clear through, and Veranix broke it the rest of the way.

Veranix smashed the tree into Pendall.

“Good night, gentlemen,” Veranix called out. “Sleep well.” He coiled the rope back at his belt, and took two steps to make a magic-fueled leap back toward home.

Just as he jumped, his leg exploded with pain.

Careening through the air, he turned back to see Samael clinging to the top of the rock face with one hand while holding his crossbow in the other hand. Even in the darkness, Veranix could see a hint of a smile on Samael's face.

Veranix landed a quarter of a mile away, almost crashing on his face. He couldn't stand on his right leg. A crossbow bolt had sliced his thigh. Fortunately, it had only clipped him, but it was still a nasty wound, bleeding significantly. He couldn't make another jump until he dealt with it, and it wouldn't take the three assassins more than a few minutes to catch up to him.
Samael isn't dead,
he thought,
and given my luck this evening, Pendall and Coleman are still on the hunt as well.

A tiny creek, barely more than a trickle of water, ran through this part of the park. There was a small wooden bridge crossing it only a few yards away from where Veranix landed. Using his staff as a crutch, he hobbled his way to the bridge and crawled into the tiny space underneath it. He braced himself in place with his good leg and held his staff up, ready to drive it at anything that appeared. He held his breath and listened.

The night was quiet, save for the light flow of the creek, and the drips of blood from his leg.

The pain was sharp and strong, screaming for his attention. He didn't hear anything outside, but at least one of those three had to be a good tracker, a quiet hunter. He didn't dare lower his guard, not when one of them might come under the bridge at any moment.

He looked at his leg. It was soaked in blood, but the cut wasn't too deep. He was feeling weak and cloudy from the blood loss. He had to deal with this injury now.

He breathed a whisper of magic into the rope, and it snaked from the loop on his belt to the wound. Veranix made the rope wrap around his leg tightly, covering the wound. He pushed more
numina
into the rope, willing it to become searing hot, just for a moment, at the wound. Skin and cloth smoldered, acrid and sweet smoke combined. Veranix let out a sharp cry, and prayed to Saint Hespin that the assassins would not hear it.

He uncoiled the rope. The wound had stopped bleeding. The pain was still incredible, but he felt he'd at least be able to walk on it. Gingerly he put his weight onto the injured leg, sliding out from his hiding place under the bridge. He took a few steps out, keeping his staff at the ready to strike at anyone he saw.

After only five steps, his head spun and he stumbled. He fell into the tiny creek, just as he heard a high-pitched voice saying, “There he is!”

H
ANDS GRABBED AT
Veranix. Four hands. Small hands. Kids.

Two of them, not more than eight or nine years old. They were grabbing at him as he pulled himself back up.

“That's enough!” he said, shoving them off.

“Whoa!” one of the boys said, falling back. The other boy let go of Veranix's wrist, holding his hands up over his head.

“It's all right, Thorn!” he said. “We need to get you out!”

“Get me out?” Veranix rasped. He had the one boy clutched by the front of his ratty coat. “Get me out of where?”

“Out of the creek, out of sight,” the boy he was holding stammered.

Out of sight was good. He needed a moment to collect himself. “Where to?”

“To our moms,” the other boy said.

“Your moms?” Veranix asked. He got his feet under him, not releasing his grip on the one boy. “They know you're loose in the park at this hour?”

“We live here,” the first said. “In the southside thicket. Right over there.” He pointed to the patch of trees. Veranix could see a few moving shadows, a flicker of campfire.

“You've got some muscle after you, Thorn,” the other kid said. He looked clever, almost cocky. His friend at least had the good sense to look scared. “We saw them when they first came into the park.”

“All the more reason for you kids to get out of here.” The last thing he needed to do was bring trouble on people who had enough already.

“You're in no shape to run or fight, Thorn,” the scared kid said.

“I'll be . . . why are you two calling me Thorn?”

“You are the Thorn, right?” the clever kid said. “The one who's been giving Old Fenmere what for?”

“Something like that,” Veranix said. His grip on the scared kid relaxed, more out of his own faintness than of conscious choice.

“In the thicket, then,” the clever kid said, “before that muscle finds you.”

The kids led him into the thicket.

There was a small clearing in the thicket, and a fire burning in an old copper drum. A few kids slept in huddles around it, and a few women were standing around. Worn women, with hard lines on their faces. Their tops were torn and loose fitting, and their threadbare skirts were shorter than polite fashion allowed. Veranix knew at once this was a doxy camp.

“What're you bringing someone in here, boys?” one of the doxies snapped as soon as the three emerged from the trees.

“He's hurt!” the scared boy said.

“That's not our problem.”

“He's the Thorn!” the clever boy said. “He's been fighting Fenmere's men!”

“Right,” another woman said, laughing. “He's the Thorn, and I'm the Duchess of Maradaine.” Veranix dropped down, taking the moment to rest.

“Wait.” Someone walked over to the light, and crouched down in front of Veranix. She looked him hard in the face. “I think that is him.” Veranix focused his weary eyes on her.

“Maxianne, right?” he asked. “You look better.”

“That's him,” she said. She stood up and looked to the others. “That's the Thorn.”

The women all stopped what they were doing. They came closer, all looking at him carefully. One of them rummaged through a bag and pulled out a small hunk of bread. She brought it over to him.

“You're the real thing, aren't you?” she said, handing him the bread. Almost instinctively, he took it and began eating.

“I'm not sure what you mean by that,” Veranix said.

“I mean . . .” she started. She paused, thinking for a moment. “You could have left Maxi up in that flop. You could have rolled her, left her to die from
effitte
sweats.”

“No, ma'am,” Veranix said. “I couldn't have done that.”

“That's what I mean,” she said. “That's how you're the real thing.”

“You ain't meaning to muscle in on Fenmere, make yourself boss,” Maxianne said. “You're doing what the constabs won't.”

“And you looked after one of ours, which Fenmere never does,” the first doxy said. “He just gets us hooked on the smoke or the
'fitte
. Makes us his. Muscles on us. Vanishes our kids.”

“Vanishes?” Veranix asked. “What do you mean?”

“Doxy kids and other park rats,” the clever kid said. “They've been vanishing.”

“Nobody walks alone no more,” the other kid said.

“I don't know anything about that,” Veranix said. “You think Fenmere is behind it?”

Maxianne nodded. “Nothing happens in Dentonhill that Fenmere ain't behind. Nothing 'cept you.”

Veranix was uncomfortable with how they were all looking at him. Expectation. Hope.

“Look,” he said, pulling himself onto his feet. The leg still hurt, but he could walk on it. No other injuries, but he was still a bit lightheaded. He wasn't sure if that was blood loss or just pushing himself magically, but he didn't have time to figure that out. “I don't know . . . I really don't know much of anything. I'm mostly just trying to get through this night without dying.”

“That's all any of us are doing,” the old woman said.

“Right,” he said. He limped his way over to the edge of the clearing. “I think I can get out of here now. It's probably safest for you all if you have nothing to do with me.”

“Too late for that, Thorn.” Veranix turned and saw Pendall, standing on the other side of the clearing. He was amazed a man that big could approach without being heard.

“Pendall, old boy,” Veranix said. “I already hit you with a tree. That was a hint to leave.”

“I remember, Thorn,” Pendall said. With surprising speed, he lashed out and grabbed one of the girls who was dozing close by. He held her with one hand, gripping the top of her head. She winced and cried.

“Put her down, Pendall!” Veranix said. His hand went to the rope.

“Try it, Thorn,” Pendall said. “Go for your special rope, and I crush her skull.”

Veranix held his hands up away from his belt.

“All right, Pendall. No skull crush.”

Pendall laughed. “Blasted saints, is it that easy?” he said. “Threaten to kill one girl, and you go soft?”

“Put her down, man,” Veranix said. “You want to throw with me, throw with me.”

“We're paid to bring your head, Thorn,” Pendall said.

“Fenmere, right?” Veranix said. “How much is he paying you?”

“A thousand crowns each,” Pendall said. He looked far too pleased with himself.

“Is that it?” Veranix asked. “Well, now I'm just insulted. And you should be, too.”

“Shut it, Thorn!” Pendall barked. He squeezed slightly, and the girl cried out.

“Hey, I'm just saying, he was paying forty thousand for this rope and cloak. I would think he'd put at least half that much to get me.”

“Forty?” Pendall asked.

“I mean, I'm worth it,” Veranix said. “Aren't you?”

“Shut up! You throw down that rope and cloak on the ground. No tricks or she dies.”

“Right,” Veranix said. “Nice and slow.” He unhooked the rope and tossed it in front of him, and then threw the cloak down. A wave of fatigue hit him when he dropped them, but he forced himself to ignore it.
Numina
still pooled around them, he could feel it at his feet, even at this distance.

“Good,” Pendall said. “Weapons, too.”

Veranix dropped his arrows—useless as they were now—and his staff to the ground. “All right, Pendall. I'm unarmed. Let the girl go.” He held his hands above his head.

“Stupid,” Pendall tossed the girl to the side negligently. She landed in a heap, but she was alive, breathing. Veranix gave Pendall a crooked grin.

“I'm stupid?” he asked. “Pen, what did you forget?”

“That you're an acrobat?” Pendall said, moving closer to Veranix. “I think I can still catch you and pummel you to death.”

“No, Pen,” Veranix said. “You forgot that I'm a goddamned mage.”

Veranix poured as much
numina
as he could channel through his body into a blast of pure force, and slammed it into Pendall's chest.

Pendall went flying backward, far out of sight. Veranix dropped to his knees, spent, barely able to breathe.

“Wow!” yelled one of the boys. “You knocked him to the river, I'd bet!”

“Let's hope,” Veranix rasped. “Cloak.”

“What?” Maxianne asked “What is it?”

“The cloak,” he said, clawing weakly at the open air. “Give it to me.”

The girl that Pendall had been holding hostage scrambled over to him, picking up the cloak and putting it into his hand. Touching it brought
numina
rushing into his body, which he drank up like cold water.

“Thanks,” he said. He got to his feet, putting the cloak on. “I've got to stop having nights like this.”

“That was loud,” the old woman said. “If he has friends, they won't be far off.”

“No, they won't,” Veranix said, strapping his arrows on. “You may want to find a new camp. I'm sorry—”

“Don't,” Maxianne said. “Don't apologize. Just get out of here.”

Veranix didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed the rest of his gear and pushed his way through the trees. Every step hurt, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, pushed it out of his head. He didn't have time to let something like pain get him killed.

He came out at the edge of the park, right at the corner of Justin and Paller. He had three blocks to Necker Square, and then three more to Waterpath. As battered and beat as he was, he felt he could do that. He took three more steps before he heard the hooves pounding toward him. His hand went to his staff. Two horse riders were approaching.

“Stand down in the name of the law!” one of the approaching horsemen called. He was holding up a lantern, so Veranix could see both of them were in green and red uniforms. City Constabulary. The other one was holding a crossbow.

“Stood down,” Veranix called out, slinging his staff on his back and holding up his hands. “I am standing down, sirs.”

The two horses stopped a few yards away from Veranix. The man with the crossbow slid off his horse, keeping his aim trained on Veranix the whole time. “Think you can cause trouble in the park, rat?”

“Cause trouble, sir?” Veranix asked. “No, sir, no such thing.”

“Right,” the one with the lamp said. “Those huge crashes and screams just happened.”

“No, there were three men, officer, they . . .”

“Of course there were three men, and we've got one of them now,” the armed officer said.

“No, not me, officer. I'm a student at the University of Maradaine and . . .”

“And, what?” the one with the lamp said. “You were out for a moonlit stroll in the park, with a quarterstaff and a rope?”

“Well,” Veranix started. He heard a crack from the dark trees. Someone was out there. “You know what, officers? It is, indeed, very strange and unexplainable. Clearly you must arrest me.”

“He smell drunk, Ollie?” the one with the lamp asked.

“Not a drop, Hal,” the one with the crossbow said.

“Right,” Hal said, “So we have a sober, armed boy, asking to be arrested.”

“I think he's covering something up in the park,” Ollie said, looking over to the woods. “Some job or scheme he doesn't want us finding.”

Hal smiled wryly at Veranix. “Sorry, pal. Afraid you found the two constabs who aren't in Fenmere's pocket, so whatever you're up to, we aren't going to . . .”

“Oh, thank the saints,” Veranix said. “Because Fenmere has three killers in the park trying to . . .”

That was as far as he got before the knives came whistling out of the trees. Both constabs were hit square in the chest. They dropped down to the ground. Coleman stepped out of the woods, two more knives in his hand. His shirt was soaked in blood, left arm in a makeshift sling. He was pale and breathing hard, but he looked determined.

“Hate to kill honest men just doing their jobs, but I couldn't have them interfering.”

Veranix didn't bother replying or bantering. He pulled out his staff and charged in, willing his cloak around him to blend his image away. Coleman threw, deadly accurate at Veranix's heart. Veranix twisted to the side and batted it away with the staff. He swung it back around, grazing Coleman. Nothing resembling a solid hit.

Coleman struck back with his knife, almost too fast for Veranix to block. He had to fight defensively, as Coleman's constant barrage of attacks left him no opportunity. Even one-handed, Coleman was outmatching him.

“Yes!” Coleman shouted joyfully. “This is a fight!” His eyes glinted with delight.

Veranix realized Coleman was only toying with him. Having fun before taking the killing shot, or possibly keeping him occupied while Samael got in position to shoot.