CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR #3
After the door shut, the voices of the remaining five patrons spoke up more clearly. “Forty gold,” another man said with a chuckle. “Can yeh imagine forty gold for them two? That’s more than I’ve seen in my lifetime.”
“It ain’t like yer gettin’ much of it, Arn,” said a nasal voice, its tone grating against his broken words. “Far-ty gold divided by the eighteen of us. That’s only . . .” The man fell silent, and Deckard imagined him counting the math on his fingers.
“That’s nineteen of us, Fourd,” the first man corrected.
“Ah, now I’ve gotta start over,” Fourd lamented.
A new voice joined the group, smoother and more authoritative than the rest. “Two gold a piece,” he said. “Give or take a bit.”
“Who’ll be takin’, and who’ll be givin’?” Trover asked.
“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” the leader replied.
The other four men fell silent.
Deckard forced himself to drink, pretending that he wasn’t engrossed in the conversation.
The bitter yeast tasted flat. He had confirmation now.
Evylin was somewhere in this building, struck twice by this Trover and likely bound.
His mind began to torture him with images of all the dark ways they might have harmed her in the past few hours.
A heat rose under his skin.
“Yeh know,” said the first man. “Twenty for that tasty morsel seems short, by my reckoning.”
“Aye, I’d say ’tis, Maurd,” Arn agreed with another wheezy chuckle. “Quite a bit short.”
Maurd let out a long, suggestive sigh. “I think she oughta be . . . oh, at least a hundred for that fine face.”
“’Nother hundred fer tha’ fine ass too.”
“Lest you boys forget,” Trover added, “the rest of her ain’ so bad either. Believe me.”
Deckard’s blood spiked as Trover continued. “No, no,” he said over his comrades’ laughter. “A mere two hundred wouldna begin to cover that fine creature’s fee.”
Ethenn tensed.
“It’s near robbery to suggest we let ’er go for less than five,” Arn agreed. “We oughta demand proper payment.”
“And if the king won’t pay,” Maurd said, “might be her that needs to.”
The men burst out with more laughter.
Deckard ground his teeth, anger rising with a murmur in his ears. He closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists on the bartop, fighting for control. It was all talk, useless vulgar chatter to bolster their male egos. It wouldn’t matter what they said once he got Evylin out of there.
“Colonel,” Ethenn whispered, worry lining his voice.
The leader spoke again, cutting over his men’s laughter. “I don’t care what you do to her,” he said sharply. “But she’ll stay alive and recognizable for the king’s men to confirm, got it?”
His men mumbled their understanding.
A squeal of wood against wood marked the scrape of chair legs over the floor. “Good,” the leader said. “Make sure you remember that. And Trover, the next time your hit leaves a mark on our guests, it’ll be your pay doing the giving.”
Heavy footsteps crossed the room, turning the corner before stomping with an unmistakable tread up the stairs.
Deckard worked to slow his breathing. He kept his head dipped, focusing on the sounds around him. With the leader gone and the barkeep in the back, only four men and the bard remained. Their odds had improved here in the tavern, but they didn’t know what awaited them upstairs.
Arn piped up again. “What’da’ya think the king wants with ’em?”
The others were silent for a time.
“Maybe he wants the same as us,” Maurd suggested. “Wouldna be the first time he’s had his fun, the old dog.”
“Is’n he a little old for that?” Arn said with a chuckle. “Or maybe he has some magical tonic that helps ’im.”
Deckard felt a tremor pass through his arms and into his fists, a subtle thrum working through his skull.
“Colonel,” Ethenn whispered again, “you need to calm down.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Trover said, rusty voice amused. “Good ol’ Blount can have the bitch after I’m done with her. Then I can say I rutted the king’s whore, and he can have my leftovers.”
Heat tingled along Deckard’s skin, racing up his spine and across his scalp. A buzz settled into his ears, whispering violently. He grasped onto the newly familiar sensation, letting it take hold of him. His eyes flew open, his vision black at the edges.
Ethenn gasped. “Colonel, your hands.”
Ignoring the young man’s warning, Deckard rose from his stool.
A stillness washed over his mind, his emotions steadying with unnatural calm.
The room was tinged in sudden shadow, though no one else seemed to notice.
It was as though he’d stepped outside himself, separating from the man he was to become the Mage he was supposed to be.
Casually, Deckard approached the men’s table. He gave the thugs a friendly smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, allowing his clean Ephrian accent to come through.
Instantly, all four of the men at the table went for their weapons. The music stopped.
“What do you want?” the man whose voice he recognized as Trover’s growled.
“I’m looking for my wife,” Deckard said. “Perhaps you’ve seen her. She’s quite beautiful with dark hair and tan skin, tall for an Ephrian, and strong enough to fight ten men at once. Worth about five hundred gold, some might say.”
The thugs’ eyes grew bright with greed.
“Ah, yeh?” Maurd asked, rising. “Seems I have seen her.”
“Tha’s right,” Arn said, drawing his sword. “Why don’t we take yeh to ’er? Then yeh can watch as we have our fun.”
The other men sniggered, taking out their own weapons. The bard set his mandolin aside and drew a long-bladed dagger, ready for a battle.
Deckard smiled dryly. “I have a better idea,” he said, then raised his hands. No thought went into his action. He could never explain how any of it happened. He only felt a violent power flow through him as purple-black masses erupted from the floor.
Two sharp crystalline shadows pierced through Arn and Fourd, the men screaming as Maurd recoiled. Trover didn’t lose a second, leaping across the table, knife raised.
Deckard swept a hand through the air. One of the shadows slammed into the thug, knocking him across the room.
Ethenn’s reaction was instantaneous. He pulled out his throwing knives, sending them flying through the room with precision.
Maurd dropped, the small hilt protruding from his eye.
The bard was next. Amidst the commotion, the back door slammed open, the two guards bursting in as footsteps raced down the stairs, drawn by the sound.
Deckard gestured to the guards, the purple-black shadows leaping to his command. They pierced into the guards’ chests in a swirl of glittering shards. The crystalline shadows ripped through them before they flew back to rest in Deckard’s hands.
Two more men appeared at the bottom of the stairs, swords drawn and eyes wide. Deckard could only imagine what they saw. Dead bodies lay strewn across the tavern floor, three of them at his feet, while shadows hovered around him.
Ethenn’s hatchet embedded in one man’s chest while Deckard’s magic sliced through the other.
The barkeep and another man appeared from the back, weapons drawn as they charged Ethenn. They weren’t fast enough, and Deckard cut them down readily.
“Colonel!” Ethenn warned, pointing behind him.
Deckard spun just in time as Trover pounced. He ducked as Trover’s long dagger whooshed over his head, its blade glinting in the lamplight. The massive man growled and swiped again.
Deckard caught his wrist, then kicked, striking his ankle.
Trover cried out as the bone cracked, falling to one knee. “Take her,” he cried, letting his dagger clatter to the floor. “No bitch is worth this.”
Deckard grabbed hold of the thug’s collar, holding him close. The magic whispered in his head, goading him with its fervor, with its eagerness for violence. “She’s worth more than you’ll ever know,” he said, voice steady and calm. Then he swiped a hand through the air.
A crystalline shard sliced Trover’s throat, blood splattering.
Deckard dropped the body and stepped away, the magical shadows following his every move. He met Ethenn at the bar and reached over for a towel to wipe the blood from his cheek. The young man’s head dipped, but he motioned to a spot that Deckard had missed.
“Thanks,” he said, then tossed the towel on the counter.
Ethenn watched him warily, drawing back as Deckard stepped nearer. A fleeting remorse crossed Deckard’s mind. He’d just killed that man in cold blood. Trover had surrendered, dropping his weapon. Perhaps Ethenn had a reason to fear him.
Yet, the magic coiled with ardent excitement, and he shoved the guilt aside, moving for the staircase.
This wasn’t the time to have a conscience.
These men had abducted Evylin and Auden for money and further debated the merit of raping her.
They were no loss to humanity. If anything, they deserved their deaths.
At the top of the stairs, two more guards waited.
Deckard took them down with a flick of his wrists.
Beyond their crumpled forms lay a shadowed hallway with four doors.
He didn’t bother waiting for Ethenn. He moved to the nearest one and kicked it in, the door swinging wide to reveal the empty bedroom.
Deckard moved across the hall as Ethenn arrived. With another kick, he discovered a second vacant room.
Hatchet back in hand, Ethenn reached his side, approaching the third door.
Deckard reared back and kicked. It sailed open on rickety hinges to slam against the wall.
Inside were five men with swords drawn. Behind them to the left lay Auden’s prone form.
And straight ahead, the leader of the gang stood with Evylin before him, holding a knife to her throat.
“Stay right there,” the leader ordered.
Frozen in the doorway, Deckard’s darkened vision drifted from his study of the room to settle on Evylin. Her hands were bound in front of her, and a bloody welt marred her forehead. Otherwise, she appeared unharmed.
The magic jolted within him, and Deckard smiled at the sight of his wife. “Hello, dear.”