A World Without Heroes
Page 64
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Breathing gently, he edged over until his face was beside the skirt at the foot of the bed. Feeling somewhat silly, he slid his knife from its sheath and with the tip of the blade raised the skirt just enough to peer out with one eye. By the feeble glow of the embers Jason saw the legs of a person stealthily advancing toward the bed. From the build it appeared to be a man. Jason’s chest clenched in fear.
The furtive figure wore moccasins and made no sound as he moved. How had he gotten in? Jason considered calling for Norval. But this very well might be Norval! Or someone Norval had quietly admitted.
The intruder was about to pass out of view as he approached the side of the bed. Jason lowered the skirt and carefully scooted to the side the intruder was approaching, trying to breathe soundlessly. Again he raised the skirt with the blade. One of the intruder’s feet was inches away. Jason thought of his uncle Kevin, who had hobbled around in casts and braces for months after snapping his Achilles tendon while playing tennis. Staring at the unprotected foot, Jason realized he could probably sever the Achilles tendon before the intruder knew what hit him. The moccasin did not rise above the ankle, and the pants were thin and close-fitting.
Jason heard the covers being thrown back, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The poor angle prevented him from putting all of his strength into the motion, but Jason slashed the back of the leg about an inch above the ankle. The blade of the poniard proved keen, slicing easily through the material of the pants and deeply into the flesh.
The figure sprang away using his good leg, then collapsed to the floor, clutching the injury, emitting an agonized growl.
“Help! Intruder!” Jason called, rolling out from under the bed on the side opposite the wounded assassin.
“Intruder!” Norval cried, relaying the alarm as he burst through the door, short sword in one hand, crossbow in the other.
Jason watched from his crouched position as a thrown knife buried itself in Norval’s abdomen. The bodyguard staggered to one side, firing an aimless quarrel into the floor. Jason rose, his thumb on the trigger that would launch the poniard blade, just in time to see the dark figure scramble into the fireplace, scattering embers as he passed. Jason lunged to the large fireplace. Peering inside, he discovered that the flue extended both upward and downward. For a moment he could faintly hear the assassin fleeing down the flue somewhere below.
Jason backed out of the fireplace as four guards rushed into the room, weapons ready, a couple bearing torches.
“He’s escaped through the fireplace, heading down!” Jason shouted. “I slashed open the back of his ankle.” Two of the guards left in pursuit. Two remained. One of the guards knelt beside Norval. The other held a torch and a sword. Jason approached the fallen bodyguard.
“The chancellor?” Norval coughed, voice tight, eyes squeezed shut, sweat shining on his face in the torchlight.
“Lord Jason is unharmed,” the kneeling guard assured him. “Let me see the wound.”
Norval clutched the haft of the knife in his gut with both hands. He shook his head. “End this,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
The guard pried Norval’s hands from the handle of the knife. The haft was black, the pommel shaped into the likeness of a grinning skull. “What the devil?” the guard murmured.
Thin tendrils of acrid smoke curled up from the wound. Norval began to convulse. His wide eyes rolled back, and perspiration drenched his reddening face. His lips twitched as if trying to speak.
“The knife was poisoned,” Jason said.
“Bloodbane,” the kneeling guard agreed. “A foul toxin, excruciating and without antidote.”
The convulsions were increasing in violence. Norval held out a hand, the veins standing out so sharply on his sweat-glossed forearm they appeared on the verge of bursting through the skin. With a strangled cry he slumped into unconsciousness. His breathing continued in irregular gasps.
“This way, Lord Jason,” said the guard with the torch, leading him out of the bedroom.
Jason looked back as he exited to the elegantly furnished antechamber. The other guard covered Norval with his cloak. The bodyguard’s limbs continued to spasm in fluttering bursts.
Although Norval passed out of sight, Jason remained aware that the venomous knife had been intended for him. He could have been the one flailing on the ground, blood boiling in reaction to a vile poison, had he slept in his bed, or had Norval failed to respond so promptly to his cry for aid. Tears of gratitude to the dying bodyguard stung his eyes.
Several guards came into the antechamber. Most proceeded into the bedchamber. Others poked about the anteroom, as if they suspected the assassin might be hidden behind a wall hanging or in a drawer. A few gathered in hushed conversation.
Jason stood apart, deeply shaken, trying to process what had happened. Somebody had tried to assassinate him! It was one thing to know about a threat and quite another to see it carried out. If he had died, his loved ones would never have known what had happened to him. He would have forever been an unsolved missing-person case.
A broad guard with a fringe of graying hair around his bald scalp entered the antechamber and approached Jason. The other guards rose to attention, but he waved them back to their former activities. The older guard wore a pair of golden braids on his left shoulder that seemed to denote a high rank. “Lord Chancellor,” the guard began, “I am Cedric, captain of the King’s Guard. His Highness Duke Dolan requests that I escort you to his presence.”
“Of course.” Glad he had slept in his clothes, Jason followed Cedric out of his apartments and down several corridors. They entered a room where a pair of guards slid aside a plush sofa and rolled up an embroidered purple carpet to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. The guards raised the trapdoor, and Jason followed Cedric down a curving stairwell. A guard followed, bearing a lantern.
At the start of a narrow passageway beyond the stairs Dolan awaited, flanked by four guards, all wearing broadswords.
“Welcome, Chancellor Jason,” Dolan said. “We lament word of the attempt on your life. Let us enter the lorevault to discuss these matters in greatest privacy.”
“Lead on, Your Highness,” Jason said.
They walked along a winding passageway until arriving at a round, iron door. The door had a grid of holes and seven pegs. The guards turned away from the door while the regent inserted the pegs. Jason moved to turn away, but Dolan insisted he watch. “You are the only person besides myself trusted with the combination,” the regent said.
The furtive figure wore moccasins and made no sound as he moved. How had he gotten in? Jason considered calling for Norval. But this very well might be Norval! Or someone Norval had quietly admitted.
The intruder was about to pass out of view as he approached the side of the bed. Jason lowered the skirt and carefully scooted to the side the intruder was approaching, trying to breathe soundlessly. Again he raised the skirt with the blade. One of the intruder’s feet was inches away. Jason thought of his uncle Kevin, who had hobbled around in casts and braces for months after snapping his Achilles tendon while playing tennis. Staring at the unprotected foot, Jason realized he could probably sever the Achilles tendon before the intruder knew what hit him. The moccasin did not rise above the ankle, and the pants were thin and close-fitting.
Jason heard the covers being thrown back, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The poor angle prevented him from putting all of his strength into the motion, but Jason slashed the back of the leg about an inch above the ankle. The blade of the poniard proved keen, slicing easily through the material of the pants and deeply into the flesh.
The figure sprang away using his good leg, then collapsed to the floor, clutching the injury, emitting an agonized growl.
“Help! Intruder!” Jason called, rolling out from under the bed on the side opposite the wounded assassin.
“Intruder!” Norval cried, relaying the alarm as he burst through the door, short sword in one hand, crossbow in the other.
Jason watched from his crouched position as a thrown knife buried itself in Norval’s abdomen. The bodyguard staggered to one side, firing an aimless quarrel into the floor. Jason rose, his thumb on the trigger that would launch the poniard blade, just in time to see the dark figure scramble into the fireplace, scattering embers as he passed. Jason lunged to the large fireplace. Peering inside, he discovered that the flue extended both upward and downward. For a moment he could faintly hear the assassin fleeing down the flue somewhere below.
Jason backed out of the fireplace as four guards rushed into the room, weapons ready, a couple bearing torches.
“He’s escaped through the fireplace, heading down!” Jason shouted. “I slashed open the back of his ankle.” Two of the guards left in pursuit. Two remained. One of the guards knelt beside Norval. The other held a torch and a sword. Jason approached the fallen bodyguard.
“The chancellor?” Norval coughed, voice tight, eyes squeezed shut, sweat shining on his face in the torchlight.
“Lord Jason is unharmed,” the kneeling guard assured him. “Let me see the wound.”
Norval clutched the haft of the knife in his gut with both hands. He shook his head. “End this,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
The guard pried Norval’s hands from the handle of the knife. The haft was black, the pommel shaped into the likeness of a grinning skull. “What the devil?” the guard murmured.
Thin tendrils of acrid smoke curled up from the wound. Norval began to convulse. His wide eyes rolled back, and perspiration drenched his reddening face. His lips twitched as if trying to speak.
“The knife was poisoned,” Jason said.
“Bloodbane,” the kneeling guard agreed. “A foul toxin, excruciating and without antidote.”
The convulsions were increasing in violence. Norval held out a hand, the veins standing out so sharply on his sweat-glossed forearm they appeared on the verge of bursting through the skin. With a strangled cry he slumped into unconsciousness. His breathing continued in irregular gasps.
“This way, Lord Jason,” said the guard with the torch, leading him out of the bedroom.
Jason looked back as he exited to the elegantly furnished antechamber. The other guard covered Norval with his cloak. The bodyguard’s limbs continued to spasm in fluttering bursts.
Although Norval passed out of sight, Jason remained aware that the venomous knife had been intended for him. He could have been the one flailing on the ground, blood boiling in reaction to a vile poison, had he slept in his bed, or had Norval failed to respond so promptly to his cry for aid. Tears of gratitude to the dying bodyguard stung his eyes.
Several guards came into the antechamber. Most proceeded into the bedchamber. Others poked about the anteroom, as if they suspected the assassin might be hidden behind a wall hanging or in a drawer. A few gathered in hushed conversation.
Jason stood apart, deeply shaken, trying to process what had happened. Somebody had tried to assassinate him! It was one thing to know about a threat and quite another to see it carried out. If he had died, his loved ones would never have known what had happened to him. He would have forever been an unsolved missing-person case.
A broad guard with a fringe of graying hair around his bald scalp entered the antechamber and approached Jason. The other guards rose to attention, but he waved them back to their former activities. The older guard wore a pair of golden braids on his left shoulder that seemed to denote a high rank. “Lord Chancellor,” the guard began, “I am Cedric, captain of the King’s Guard. His Highness Duke Dolan requests that I escort you to his presence.”
“Of course.” Glad he had slept in his clothes, Jason followed Cedric out of his apartments and down several corridors. They entered a room where a pair of guards slid aside a plush sofa and rolled up an embroidered purple carpet to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. The guards raised the trapdoor, and Jason followed Cedric down a curving stairwell. A guard followed, bearing a lantern.
At the start of a narrow passageway beyond the stairs Dolan awaited, flanked by four guards, all wearing broadswords.
“Welcome, Chancellor Jason,” Dolan said. “We lament word of the attempt on your life. Let us enter the lorevault to discuss these matters in greatest privacy.”
“Lead on, Your Highness,” Jason said.
They walked along a winding passageway until arriving at a round, iron door. The door had a grid of holes and seven pegs. The guards turned away from the door while the regent inserted the pegs. Jason moved to turn away, but Dolan insisted he watch. “You are the only person besides myself trusted with the combination,” the regent said.
