Chapter 8 #3
“Right.” Harald sighted along the manor walls that lined the avenue. The gates were uniformly closed. “Not abandoned, though. Looks like everyone’s hunkering down.”
“Anna will tell us what’s going on,” said Sam.
Urgency filled Harald. Whatever had transpired to make even the Angelic Quarter this locked down, it couldn’t have passed her by. “Let’s hurry.”
They moved down the avenue, scrutinizing those who rushed past, but people preferred to cross the street well before they came close so that they couldn’t challenge anyone for an explanation.
Mounted riders in the crimson and black of House Drakenhart stormed by at one point, but they ignored Harald’s calls for information altogether.
Dark clouds were drawing in overhead. They did nothing to ease Harald’s discomfort. He strode faster, and the others didn’t complain, following the route to Sonora Manor, one which they’d once raced along while pursued by Yseult Khan.
The usual city life that might have volunteered information in exchange for scales in the other parts of the city—the homeless, beggars, street waifs, costermongers—were entirely absent in the noble quarter.
So great did Harald’s curiosity grow that he thought of forcing the rare mounted riders to stop, or to race across the street to accost a hurrying stranger, but no. Anna would tell them the unvarnished truth.
They reached her street. Her familiar estate wall.
And there camped outside her battered iron gate was a small host of armored figures clad in the colors of various Houses.
Harald saw the royal blue and gold of House Celestara, the orange and slate blue of House Emberfell, the forest green and black of House Thornvale.
A dozen raiders or soldiers in all, not exactly mingling, but nor were they at each other’s throats.
They looked as if they had been stationed there for some time—half sat on the sidewalk’s edge, while others stood in small clusters in low conversation, arms crossed.
Perhaps Harald should have approached alone under the cover of stealth, but it was too late now. The raiders up ahead had noticed them the moment his small party turned the corner, and now all were rising to their feet to scrutinize and watch their approach.
“I don’t see any Gold-rankers,” said Nessa softly. “Don’t recognize any faces at all.”
“Me neither,” said Sam. “Copper-ranked? Maybe Silver, then?”
“Question is,” murmured Harald, watching the strangers warily as they drew closer. “Why are they outside Anna’s gate, and nobody else’s?”
“That many could have forced their way inside if they wanted,” agreed Nessa. “Must be a reason they’re camped outside.”
“Perhaps Lady Sonora put her Infinitum scale to prompt use,” suggested Kársek from the rear of their group. “Hired herself a quality defense.”
“We’re about to find out.” Harald lightly ghosted his senses over his four Thrones. If these strangers proved aggressive, he wouldn’t hesitate to try out his new powers.
“Ho there,” called one, a handsome man in House Thornvale colors, his words momentarily recalling Brauxis to Harald’s mind. “Who are—”
“It’s him,” said a House Celestara raider, drawing his blade with a flourish. “The Darrowdelve.”
The rest reacted as if goosed, eyes widening as they drew weapons and began to spread out, the tension in the air immediately spiking.
“Put your weapons down, you idiots,” said an overweight knight whose rusted armor was loosely strapped about his prodigious bulk.
He’d been sitting on a canvas stool against the wall, and only now heaved himself to his feet.
He wore a tabard of silver and sky blue—House Silvershield, whose leader, Harald knew, was secretly beholden to the demon Grimarque.
“If that’s Harald fucking Darrowdelve you’re just asking to get your arses walloped. ”
The others faltered, glancing to the heavyset knight with some obvious measure of respect.
“Hullo there,” said the rusted knight, raising a gauntlet in greeting.
His face was as round as a pie, his cheeks cheerily rosy, and his eyes a porcelain blue under a mop of heavy golden ringlets.
“Sir Baskin at your service.” Despite his cheer his gaze was sharp and piercing.
“You are Sir Harald Darrowdelve, are you not?”
Harald came to a stop. “Sure. What are you all doing here?”
Sir Baskin reached down to scritch at his side. “Wasting time, mostly. Everything’s gone to shit, and we’ve been commanded to grab hold of Countess Sonora. Problem is, we’re late to the party. A Gold-ranker is already in there. Got her first.”
Harald’s hands curled into fists. “Who?”
“If we were allies and best friends, I’d tell you immediately. But, well.” Sir Baskin shrugged apologetically. “They just went in an hour ago. I fear for the countess’ life.”
Harald summoned the Scourge into his fist. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Sir Baskin bowed and stepped aside. “Don’t think I could stop you if I tried. Good luck!”
And with his friends at his heels, Harald slipped through the crowd, and passed into Sonora Manor.