Chaos Descending (6 page)

Flinging the miner’s knife away into the darkness, Mansel spit into Kurchek’s face.

“Next time I’ll kill you,” he snarled.

Then Mansel stood up and suddenly felt his legs beginning to tremble. He stepped back several paces, his stomach twisting inside him. He felt dizzy and knelt down, holding his own broken and wounded arm against his chest. He could hear people coming, and Mansel had no doubt that Quinn would be among them. That comforting thought was the last thing that passed through the young warrior’s mind before he toppled over onto his side and passed out.

When Mansel came to, he recognized that he was at home. Nycol was hovering nearby, putting away her sewing instruments. He reached up with his good hand and felt his brow. His head was aching so bad that the searing pain of the gash above his eye was hardly noticeable.

“Look who’s awake,” Quinn said from his usual spot in the rocking chair near the fire. “You were touch and go there for a while, but I figured you were too hardheaded to die on us.”

Mansel tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. He couldn’t understand why he felt so terrible. He’d been in plenty of fights and never felt this bad. But his whole body ached, and his wounded arm was hurting so bad he couldn’t move it.

“Don’t talk,” Nycol said. “You should rest.”

“She’s right,” Quinn said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“What… happened?” Mansel managed to ask.

“You won the battle but nearly lost the war,” Quinn said. “That knife wound on your arm was more than a flesh wound. We had to cauterize it to stop the bleeding, and we were nearly too late. Thank your lucky stars that Nycol kept her head while we were fixing you up. She’s also pretty handy with a needle and thread. I’ll ride over to Zollin’s and we’ll let him finish the job, but Nycol saved your life.”

Mansel smiled, but Nycol didn’t return the gesture. She looked angry and he felt guilty. He hadn’t gone looking for a fight, but he hadn’t shied away from it either. He had been defending himself, and no one could fault him for that, but Nycol didn’t look as if she cared whose fault the fight had been.

“Kurchek…” Mansel said, trying to explain what had happened, but his voice gave out again.

“He lost an eye, but he’ll live,” Quinn said. “The stupid brute simply doesn’t know when to quit, does he?”

“Drink this,” Nycol said, sitting down on a stool beside the bed they shared in the small home. She tipped a small cup of wine to his lips.

Mansel sipped at the warm liquid. It wasn’t cool and refreshing, but it did seem to give him a little strength and loosened his tongue.

“He attacked me,” Mansel said, looking at Nycol pleadingly.

“He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been out drinking,” she said.

“Well…” Quinn said. “That’s not completely his fault.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Nycol said, shooting Quinn a stern look of disapproval. “I thought the two of you were working.”

“We finished Dolver’s roof,” Quinn said. “And then Zollin and Brianna came into town with news.”

Mansel wanted to stop Quinn, to tell him that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to proclaim Brianna’s pregnancy to Nycol, but he didn’t have the strength. The wine had helped a little, but his mouth still felt dry, his tongue thick.

“They’re having a baby,” Quinn said happily.

Mansel saw Nycol stiffen slightly. It was such a minute gesture that he doubted Quinn noticed it, but he knew the announcement had stung his beloved. She turned back to Mansel, blinking back what Mansel guessed was tear.

“That’s wonderful,” she said in a soft voice.

“It is,” Quinn said. “And that’s why we were drinking. But Mansel paced himself and didn’t dull his wits.”

“Kurchek was waiting,” Mansel managed.

“The damn fool was brooding in the Valley,” Quinn said, referring to the inn where they had been celebrating Zollin’s good news. “I didn’t think he had murder in his heart though.”

“Will he be punished?” Nycol said, the anger all too evident in her voice.

“I doubt it,” Quinn said. “No one saw the fight. We only came around when we heard the shouting. By the time we arrived, Mansel had finished it.”

“And almost died in the process,” Nycol said. “Do we have to carry weapons in the streets of Brighton’s Gate now? How many innocent men have to die before something is done?”

“No one is dying,” Quinn said soberly. “I’ll go now and fetch Zollin. Give yourself some time, Nycol. This was an isolated incident, and I’ll make sure that Kurchek moves on. There won’t be any more fighting.”

Nycol looked away and Quinn nodded at Mansel before slipping out of the small cabin. Quinn had helped Mansel build the cabin and a small stable as well. The horses they had ridden from Orrock were sheltered in the stable, and Nycol waited until they heard the hoof beats receding before she spoke.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was terrified and I took my anger out on Quinn.”

“He can handle it,” Mansel said after sipping some more of the wine.

“You could have died,” she said. “Thank goodness you were unconscious when we burned the wound. It must be excruciating.”

“I’m fine,” Mansel said, but he wasn’t convincing. His voice was weak and shaky, and he was sweating from the pain.

She gave him more wine, but his stomach was starting to twist. He felt weak and tired, but above all he felt bad for having frightened Nycol so much.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded but didn’t speak. He couldn’t help but wonder if the pain in her eyes was due to her fear for him or the news about Zollin and Brianna. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay, but he didn’t dare move. Sleep was beginning to creep over him again, and he looked forward to the relief from his pain, but he also wanted to ease Nycol’s.

Mansel’s hand twitched forward and Nycol took it. He squeezed as she brushed tears from her cheeks. Then darkness loomed up around the young warrior and he surrendered to it.

Chapter 6

The night air was cold as Quinn’s horse cantered along the trail. He didn’t mind the cold when he was dressed for it, but there had been no time to pick up a cloak. He had been in the Valley Inn discussing a new job when someone told them there was a fight. In that instant Quinn knew that Mansel was in trouble. He didn’t know how he knew, perhaps his mind simply calculated the odds. Mansel had recently left the inn, and Kurchek was gone too. It was an easy enough assumption to make, though Quinn didn’t consciously have those thoughts. The only thing that entered his mind was danger, and he raced out of the inn to find the young man who was more than a friend and business partner to him.

He had heard Mansel’s war cry and recognized it. The two men had fought side by side, facing every kind of threat Quinn could imagine, from dragons to a witch’s horrific army. In most instances Quinn knew that Mansel could hold his own, but Mansel hadn’t gone looking for a fight. His friend wasn’t even armed, and Quinn feared he would find the young warrior too late.

He was among the first at the scene of the attack. No one needed an explanation. Kurchek lay whimpering on the ground, and Mansel was unconscious a few feet away. Some of the townsfolk had brought lanterns. One look at the amount of blood pumping from Mansel’s arm and the paleness of the warrior’s skin told Quinn he was in trouble. Adrenaline had given Quinn the strength to hoist Mansel onto his shoulder and carry him back to the cottage where Nycol waited. She had been so calm, so confident in her care, that Quinn was simply amazed.

She had tied a strip of leather around Mansel’s upper arm to slow the bleeding while Quinn heated the thick metal poker that was used to move burning logs in the fireplace. Nycol had a good fire burning, and it only took a few minutes nestled in the coals for the poker’s tip to become red hot. The smell of burning flesh had been horrid, and Quinn had almost been sick, but he held himself together. Nycol quickly covered the cauterized wound with a thick poultice.

When Quinn had finally settled into the rocking chair by the fireplace, he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. The ale he’d been drinking didn’t help, nor the fact that he hadn’t eaten, but the cold night air was keeping him alert as he rode east toward what the locals had come to call the wizard’s estate. Quinn had to admit he was impressed with how well Zollin had built his home. In all the years he’d worked with Zollin, trying to teach his son how to build even the most basic structures, Zollin had seemed completely incapable. When Zollin had revealed that he was a wizard, it had almost been a relief to Quinn. If their village hadn't been invaded by wizards from the Torr and a band of mercenaries intent on taking Zollin away at the time, Quinn would have laughed with joy.

He’d always known his son wasn’t cut out to be a carpenter, but Quinn hadn’t known what else he might be good at either. He hadn’t wanted to see Zollin become a soldier after having lived that hard life himself. And yet Quinn knew that for young men without a trade, there weren’t many opportunities to earn an honest living in Yelsia. But he’d never imagined that anyone could do the things Zollin had done. Quinn had seen his son working powerful magic that simply defied explanation.

And then, when Yelsia was finally at peace, Quinn had ridden the same trail he was on at that moment to see his son’s new home. In the month it had taken Quinn, Mansel, and Nycol to travel from Orrock to Brighton’s Gate, Zollin had built a sturdy but quaint cottage. Over the next several months, Zollin had planted a large garden and constructed a decent workshop as well. While the people of the village struggled to rebuild their homes and shops, Zollin made a private little villa for himself and Brianna with virtually no help.

Of course his reputation in the village had suffered as a result. Many of the people thought that Zollin owed it to them to rebuild their village. But then they had only heard stories about the horrors Zollin had saved them from in Falxis and Olsa. After the attack by the massive black dragon, which just happened to foil an invasion of Skellmarian raiders from the Upper Range of the Northern Highlands, Zollin had traveled south and saved Yelsia first from invading armies, and then from the evil witch Gwendolyn. The dragon's attack had been devastating to the townsfolk, but afterward they had been untouched by the chaos beyond the mountains.

Zollin didn’t seem to mind the cold reception he always received from the villagers and he never withheld his power from those truly in need. He healed many of the village sick or injured, bartering his skills for the practical items he didn’t care to make for himself. And this wasn’t the first late night ride Quinn had made to Zollin’s home to bring his son to some poor soul’s rescue.

Quinn was just thinking of how fortunate he was that his horse knew the path so well, when the horse suddenly stopped in the middle of the trail and neighed in fright. Quinn almost lost his balance as the horse suddenly reversed directions and started to back up.

“What the hell is wrong?” Quinn said, squinting in the darkness.

The horse stopped, but pawed at the ground and shook its long head.

“I don’t see anything,” Quinn said, suddenly wishing he had a torch or a sword.

The sky was bright overhead with stars, but they cast little light on the darkened path. Quinn could barely make out the tall grass to his right. To his left the river glinted only slightly brighter than the land as it reflected the starlight.

Quinn wasn’t sure what was making his horse so nervous, but without a torch or weapon, he knew he had to act fast. He could turn back and wait for morning, but Zollin was leaving soon. If his son left the Great Valley without helping Mansel, the young warrior would probably be crippled by his wounds—perhaps even die. So Quinn kicked the horse into action.

“Hurrah!” he shouted as loudly as he could, while lashing the reins across the horse’s rear. “Run! Go! Go!”

The horse bolted forward, and Quinn heard the snarl of anger just ahead of them. The grass was moving, but the horse was young and fast. It dashed down the path, hooves pounding, and whatever had frightened the horse jumped into the trail behind them. Quinn risked a glance over his shoulder. All he could see was light-colored fur and a maw of savage looking teeth bared in a snarl. Then several more beasts joined the chase, and Quinn felt a stab of terror as he realized that if he’d doubled back he’d have been ambushed by the pack of vicious animals. The creatures, whatever they were, had surrounded him on the path. His only option would have been diving into the river, which would most likely have killed his horse and perhaps even ended his own life by drowning.

Dashing forward had been the right move, but Quinn realized it had just been a stroke of luck. The horse was terrified of the animals behind it, and kept running at full speed in the darkness despite the risk of tripping or falling over some unseen obstacle. The animals kept up at first, but soon slowed and gave up the chase. Quinn’s heart was pounding. There had been reports of wolves in the Great Valley, but they were rare, and Quinn didn’t think the creatures he’d seen were wolves.

When he finally reached Zollin’s home, the cottage was quiet and dark. Quinn dismounted and walked the horse into the yard between the house and the workshop. The animal was tired and Quinn knew it would need a break before making the return trip, so he took the time to unsaddle the weary animal and found some water in a bucket for the horse to drink.

“Is there trouble?” Zollin asked, stepping quietly out of the house and into the yard.

He shut the door behind him and wrapped a heavy robe around his shoulders.

Quinn nodded. “Kurchek attacked Mansel with a knife.”

“Is he okay?”

“No,” Quinn said. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and I think his forearm is broken. We had to cauterize the wound.”

“Oh, no,” Zollin said. “How did that go?”

“He was unconscious at the time.”

“Well, at least he didn’t suffer through that. What happened to Kurcheck?”

“Lost an eye, but the bastard can suffer for all I care. Mansel could use your help, though. I wanted to get here before you left.”

“Of course,” Zollin said. “I’ll come right now. Did you bring me a horse?”