Lorn averted his eyes, mostly, as he waited patiently in his wooden chair. His place afforded him a good view of Erlik and quick egress from the nearby door, but he was sure there was a back exit to the place, and that Erlik would be using it soon. Before entering the Blue Ram, Lorn had surveyed the place’s outhouse, a shabby structure of stone at the rear of the street. The hour was perfect; the outhouse itself had little traffic now. And Erlik was doing a good job filling his bladder with beer. Soon, Lorn knew, he would have to empty it.
Lorn took a sip from his own ale. A barmaid asked him pointedly if he wanted another. Lorn reached into his pocket and slapped a bronze coin onto the table, one of his very last.
‘Here,’ he said gruffly. ‘Bring me another, then stop bothering me.’
The harried-looking maid greedily took the coin, then went to the bar to bring him another drink. When she was gone Lorn settled down. Sitting in the Ram had given him time to think. He’d been surprised by Erlik’s ambush, but he knew he shouldn’t have been. He’d been a king once, and certainly there were too many flapping lips in Koth to keep them all closed. It annoyed him that he’d not foreseen this, and he wondered how many other assassins were waiting for him on the road to Ganjor.
So close. .
Too close now to be stopped by some greedy duke.
Duke Erlik himself was no less impressive than the ladies he entertained. Back in Norvor, Lorn had heard stories about the man and his handsome face. It was said that Erlik pampered himself like a princess, importing oils and perfumes to keep his skin supple. A foppish man, Erlik sat tall in his thronelike chair, his lean body draped in brightly coloured clothes and a coat that looked more suited for a woman. His face, powdered white and rouged at the cheeks, held two glassy eyes that jumped insanely, admiring the bosoms of his laughing entourage. Surprisingly, Lorn did not hate Erlik. Though looking at the fop disgusted him, he nevertheless admired him, and all he had attained. Ransoming a criminal — even a noble one — was simply good business.
I would have done the same, thought Lorn darkly.
He pondered that for a moment, wondering if it were true. In another life he would have ransomed a man without a second thought. Now? He wasn’t sure.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled. ‘Business or not, it won’t save him.’
A few long minutes later, Erlik finally rose from his seat and headed toward the rear of the tavern. A caped soldier saw him rise and followed him, no doubt a bodyguard. Lorn checked his eagerness, took a calm drink from his tankard, then got up himself, carefully taking his bundle from beneath the table. He gave one casual look over his shoulder as he headed for the front door. Then, sure nobody had noticed him, he went outside. The night wrapped him in its silent mantle. Up and down the street he saw only distant figures, too far away to see him clearly. With his stolen cape and helmet in hand, he walked around the brick building toward its rear, his boots sinking into the loamy earth as shadows swallowed him completely. There he fixed the cape around his neck and shoulders and put the helmet on his head. Hand on his sword, he stalked toward the outhouse.
As he’d hoped, only the single guardian awaited Duke Erlik. More lucky still, he had his back turned toward Lorn. Without pausing, Lorn drew his sword, walked up behind the man, and put the blade through his back. Quickly covering his victim’s mouth, Lorn held him as he convulsed, spewing blood from his throat onto Lorn’s hand. When he was sure the guard was dead, Lorn dragged him into the shadows next to the outhouse, where he quickly wiped his bloodied hands on the dewy grass. A glance toward the Ram told him no one else was coming. Lorn seized the chance. Standing at the very threshold of the stone outhouse, he grabbed hold of the door very quietly, paused to prepare himself, then flung the door open.
Squatting over the seat was Erlik, his trousers around his ankles. Lorn had his blade at the duke’s throat at once.
‘Oh, Fate. .’ gasped Erlik, holding up his hands. His head pinned to the wall by the sword, he looked desperately at Lorn. ‘Don’t kill me!’
‘Don’t say another bloody word,’ Lorn whispered. With his free hand he closed the outhouse door behind him, so that only a sliver of light entered through the chamber’s tiny window. ‘Scream and you die.’
‘I won’t,’ promised Erlik. His powdered face began to sweat. ‘You want to rob me, take it, whatever you want.’
‘Gods above, but you’re a coward,’ hissed Lorn. He pressed harder on his sword, nearly breaking the silky skin of Erlik’s throat. ‘At least act like a man, even if you can’t dress like one.’
The insult riled Erlik. ‘Who are you?’
‘Why don’t you figure that out for yourself? I’m Norvan. Does that help?’
The little colour fell from Erlik’s face. ‘Lorn. .’
‘Indeed,’ replied Lorn hatefully. ‘How much did you think you’d get for me, Erlik? Did you really think I’d let you sell me to that bitch Jazana Carr?’
‘You’re insane,’ sneered Erlik. ‘A mad-dog king, just like everyone says.’
‘Maybe,’ said Lorn. ‘But at least I’m alive.’
Then, for the third time that night, Lorn bloodied his blade.
By dawn the next morning, Lorn had left Dreel far behind. Remarkably, he had escaped the city with ease, leaving through the main gate as soon as he’d emptied Erlik’s pockets. Travelling had been difficult without a horse, but he remained on the main road throughout the night, hiding in the dark woods whenever he heard others approaching. When the sun finally rose he had put a good distance between himself and the city, and was sure no one had followed him. He did not look like an assassin, after all, and he knew it would take time for anyone to find the two bodies of the soldiers, which he stuffed down an old abandoned well. Erlik himself was probably found minutes after his death, but by then Lorn was already through the city gates.
Exhausted, he continued on the wooded road south, ignoring his blistered feet and enormous fatigue. He was glad Eiriann had followed his orders to leave the city; he had seen nothing of them on the road. With luck he would meet up with them in Ganjor. If not, he hoped they would go across the desert without him. Poppy didn’t need him to be healed — she needed the magic of Grimhold, and that was all. Perhaps he had taken her far enough. Perhaps Eiriann would take her the rest of the way.
‘A good woman,’ he told himself as he walked, and the thought of her pretty face eased his many aches. They were all good, and he trusted them. Poppy was in capable hands.
For an hour more Lorn continued on his weary way. His swollen feet threatened to burst from his worn-out boots, but he was driven by a mad urge to reach Ganjor. He remembered from the maps that it was a three-day ride between Ganjor and Dreel, and he knew it would take him much longer on foot. He had money now but that was little good to him, for he trusted no one on the road and could not risk buying passage south. If he came upon a town he might be able to purchase a horse, and it was that single hope that kept him going.
Then, to his surprise, Lorn heard voices. He stopped in the road to listen. There was no movement up ahead, no horse hooves or wagon wheels. Whoever it was had stopped, too, but the bend in the road prevented him from seeing. There was a group of people, unquestionably, and for a moment the sound was familiar. He dared to hope that it might be the Believers. .