Ghost Wounds, Episode 10a

“Noraster!” you shout. “Blunted quarrel!”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Noraster give a sharp nod.

Then you have no more attention to spare. Ark charges at you, and it is all you can do to stay ahead of his sword thrusts and swings. He’s not as good as swordsman as Lucan, not nearly, but he’s an experienced fighter, and so much stronger than you that your speed advantage hardly matters. If one of his blows even grazes you, you’re probably finished.

Then Noraster circles around Ark, raises his crossbow, and fires. The blunted quarrel slams into the back of Ark’s left knee. His leg folds up, and Ark collapses, landing hard upon his side. You spring on him, ghostsilver dagger reversed, hoping to apply the hilt to the back of his neck. But Ark’s left arm lashes out, and you catch his heavy shield across the chest, knocking you to the ground. Ark rolls to one knee, sword raised, but his gaze shifts from you to Moresti as the mercenary charges, bellowing imprecations in Szaldic.

Which gives Noraster all the opening he needs to step up behind Ark, leather sap in hand, and give him a smart rap at the base of the skull.

Ark goes down like a felled tree.

You stagger back to your feet, breathing hard.

“Pardon my impertinence,” says Noraster, “but it really would have been much easier to kill him.”

“Moresti agrees,” says Moresti in a mournful tone, examining the damage to his shield.

“No,” you say. “He’s a Ghost, has been one for years. Now help me tie him up.”

Noraster produces a length of slender silken cord from somewhere.

You blink. “You had that with you?”

He gives you that kindly grandfather smile. “My lady, a dutiful servant strives ever to meet his master’s needs. Or his master’s…er, companion, as the case might be. And Lord Lucan frequently finds himself in situations requiring the use of rope.”

“Undoubtedly,” you say, pulling off Ark’s sword belt as Noraster knots the cord around Ark’s wrists and ankles.

There is a scrap of paper in Ark’s belt. Some words, obviously written in haste.

The handwriting is Lucan’s.

Caina,

Save her. Forget about me, but save her.

The mistake was mine. I’m sorry, and I lov…

You stare at the note for a moment, everything else forgotten.

So Lucan’s wife really is alive.

That…hurts rather more than you expected. A lot more.

You push aside the emotion to be dealt with later. Right now, you need to act – if you don’t, Croanna will probably kill both Lucan and Livia. You need information – and Ark has it.

First, though, you need to get that damn bronze bracelet off his left wrist.

You are certain the thing is controlling him somehow. It positively crawls with sorcery beneath your touch, and like Rycurgus’s ebony bracelet, its thorns and spikes have sunk into the flesh of Ark’s arm. There is a keyhole and a tiny, intricate lock in its center.

Like a slave’s shackle, you think.

You’re a fair hand at opening locks without the proper keys, but this lock is beyond you.

You think it over.

You might be able to use the ghostsilver dagger to cut the thing off Ark’s wrist. The trouble is, you don’t know how far those bronze thorns have sunk into his arm. If you make a mistake, you could wind up ripping out the veins in his wrist, and he’ll bleed to death in short order.

However, there is a master locksmith among the Ghosts of Malarae, a man named Radast. Radast is slightly insane (to put it mildly), and obsessed with numbers and esoteric mathematics, but he’s an absolute genius with mechanical devices – if anyone can pick the lock on the bracelet, Radast can.

There is a third choice, much as you loathe to consider it. A master magus named Septimus Rhazion owes you a favor. A very big favor – you saved his daughter’s life from the dark spirit Rhazion had inadvertently summoned. And you would have killed him for it, but Lucan wanted to spare him, and…

No. Don’t think about Lucan now.

But Rhazion owes you, and he is thoroughly knowledgeable about all aspects of sorcery. If anyone can dispel the spells upon the bracelet, Rhazion can.

“My lady,” murmurs Noraster, “pardon the interruption upon your thoughts, but might I remind you that we are standing in a public street with a hogtied man? The Civic Militia might ask inconvenient questions, should they stumble upon us. Where should we go next?”

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