Chapter Eighteen - Thorns & Shadows #2
The three of them started barking and looking at the table.
Rosamund watched as Gnash lifted an armpit to sniff it and then turned to her to mouth ‘oops’.
There was nowhere for them to go. If the dogs had Gnash’s scent, then that was the end of it.
But Dorian only laughed, “see, they know they’re there. ”
That laugh, so different from the harsh huff she had heard before. It was like the one he had shared with Wulf that day in the conservatory. Warm. Friendly. Real.
Margot retrieved the sausages, handing them to Dorian, who in turn faced the dogs. All three stopped barking and sat on their haunches. He threw one to each of them, and they snatched them out the air, “alright, that’s enough for one day, back to work, go on.”
The voice was commanding, but there was a warmth in it she had not heard before. The three wolfhounds did not move. With a sigh Dorian patted the head of each of them, giving them a scratch behind the ears before they ran off along different alleyways.
“Thank you, Margot,” said Dorian, “let me know what I owe you.”
“I will,” she said firmly, “you have a good day now.”
He turned on his heel to head across the square. His back turned, Rosamund slid out from under the table, looking sheepishly at Margot who raised an eyebrow at her.
“Everything alright?” she asked, not quite managing to hide her smile.
“Mmhmm, yup, fine,” said Rosamund who reached to take Gnash’s hand, “thank you for the breakfast, but we should go.”
“Gnash’s sausages,” whined Gnash, pointing to his plate, bereft, “they’re gone!”
“We’ll get you some more,” said Rosamund quickly, and then looking at the plate added, “they were mine anyway.”
“Lady’s sausages are Gnash’s sausages,” said Gnash grumpily, “Lady always puts them on plate but never eats them.”
Rosamund looked back to Margot, “thank you again for everything.”
“Anytime,” said Margot with the same cheerful smile, and then pointed to one of the alleys, “he went that way by the way, Lady.”
Rosamund’s face reddened, she bobbed a quick curtsy to the woman, wondered why she did it, and then fled in the direction of the alley, dragging Gnash behind her.
The square was much busier now, and the two of them had to dodge and weave to the other side.
She noticed that she was not the only one with a goblin companion.
There were others, not as elegantly dressed as Gnash usually was, but wearing brown, durable smocks.
They were accompanying others as they stared in the same wide-eyed wonder at the place.
Guides. That’s what Margot had called Gnash that morning.
Though the other goblins seemed to give Gnash a wide berth, giving him strange looks and not acknowledging him the way they did others.
Gnash did not seem to care or notice; he was too busy waxing lyrical about his lost sausages.
They slipped out from under the glass square and back into the rain-soaked alleyway.
As the rain fell against her hood she stopped for a moment to get her bearings.
Realising too late that instead of choosing an alleyway in the opposite direction, she had picked the same way that Margot had pointed her.
Dorian was ahead of her. The heavy rain flattening his thick black hair, and she realised this must be why it was always such a mess.
He really ought to wear a cloak, or a hood at least, she thought, and surprised herself with the strength of concern that was held within that thought.
Everything in her told her to turn around and head back to the square, but her feet carried her forward. Even Gnash appeared surprised at that, pulling on her hand. However, when he saw that she was resolute he followed her, glancing between Dorian’s back and her face.
She wanted to know where he was going. What he did with his days.
She was only just starting to understand this man, and she wanted to know more.
Was he going to create more of those magic gemstones?
Was he going to resolve whatever problem was relayed to him by the auburn-haired man? What was it that Wulf had said earlier?
“Don’t go down there.”
Was he going to the mine?
Lost in her musings, she almost did not spot the shrouded figures that had started to peel away from the wall. There were six of them, fanning out behind Dorian, the orange glow from a lantern catching the glint of a crimson knife in their hand.
Assassins.
She felt a rush in her veins, and without hesitating summoned the creeping wisteria to her hands, forming it into a whip which she launched at the knife in the assassins hand.
“Behind you!”
Dorian turned, and as the whip wrapped around the assassins wrist, the alley was plunged into darkness.
The vine disappeared into the shadows, but Rosamund heaved back on it, pulling the assassin out of the smoky darkness that had surrounded Dorian.
She did not have time to think if that had been him or the assassins as one of the men and his accomplice tumbled out.
The first one struggled with the vine wrapped around him, the other pulled out a curved scarlet knife.
Another lesson with her father, another memory.
There were few things that could dispel the magic of those gifted by the goddess, except the Rubies of Ashkar.
The gemstones were forbidden to all except the Royal Guard in Valdyr.
To have even one in your possession would send you to the executioners block.
She remembered asking her father if he had ever seen one, he had only smiled at her.
I did not know him.
The second assassin sliced through the vine, and it fell lifelessly to the ground.
There were screams from the billowing shadows, and one assassin tried to escape it only for an inky black tendril to wrap around his legs and drag him back to the centre.
The two men watched their companion disappear into the darkness and then turned their attention to her.
Rosamund threw her hands out to the side, calling on as much of the foliage around her.
Roses and ivy entwined around her hands.
She grasped hold of it and smacked it along the ground, forcing her power through it to enhance the thorns along the roses.
She remembered practising quick draws with her brother when they were younger.
She would form the whips, and Edmund raise his protective ward to stop her first lash.
She still remembered the first day she finally saw a thin red cut on her brothers face, finally beating him.
He had rushed towards her and enveloped her in his arms.
The memory fuelled her, the rage and the despair at losing him, she channelled it all into the thorns, causing them to grow.
With a crack she sent both whips hurtling towards the men.
The first whip slashed through the chest of the man on the left, the thorns grappling him, spinning him where he stood, throwing him off balance.
The second rose whip grazed the arm of the one on her right.
He let out a yell but continued to approach.
Again she lashed out, but the man sliced through the end of it, the knife that flashed crimson in the light.
The vine began to wither, but Rosamund sent a surge of her hatred through the vine, regrowing it even as it rotted away.
It was like pushing against a brick wall and she could feel herself being drained.
This was not working. The first man, bloodied, continued to approach as well.
Soon enough both would be upon her. She lashed out with her remaining whip as she backed away from them.
They dodged it easily, aware of her patterns now, slicing at the ends of it with their daggers.
Behind them, she saw the shadows suddenly dissolve.
Two men lay on the ground, their bodies hollow husks.
The other two advanced on Dorian who held a long crystal rapier in one hand, inscription symbols glowing along the blade whilst the other pale hand, free of its glove, was outstretched towards the man advancing on him.
The sleeve of his coat was ripped, and she could see blood dripping on the ground.
He was injured. Was that why the shadows had fallen?
Had one of them struck him with the red blade?
She watched as he stretched out his hand again, but nothing happened.
She heard him growl in frustration as he turned to the closest assassin, the rapier, flicking out to strike him and meeting only ruby.
The other assassins were almost upon her.
Fighting separately was not helping them.
She had lost Gnash, and she prayed the little goblin had hidden himself away.
If Dorian went down, then she would be surrounded.
Using what was left of the rose and ivy whip she launched it towards a nearby hanging lantern, the green vines wrapping around it.
She pulled herself off the ground, swinging herself forward and kicking the already injured assassin on her way past him.
She landed next to Dorian, the vine in her hand forming into the same shape as his silver rapier.
“What are you doing here?” he growled at her as she moved to stand back-to-back with him, her gaze fixed on the assassins.
“Can we talk about this later?” she hissed back, “men with knives first, then you can scold me.”
He growled again, but she took that as agreement. Her lungs were burning, and she could already feel an ache in her arms. It had been so long since she had done anything like this, she prayed that her muscles would remember, would carry her through this.
“Avoid the knives,” said Dorian firmly.
As one, they lunged at their assailants.