Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Where are you going now?”

she whispered.

“We passed another group. I’m going to lead them away. You go ahead and warn Raul.”

“But you don’t know—”

Ignoring her, Dedrick scrambled down the ladder and landed with a soft thud on the packed dirt of the alley. Twilight made it difficult to see, but Ilse could just make out a dozen figures moving along the street. Dedrick straightened up, as though he had just spotted them. A pause, then he darted down the nearest alley. The shadows swarmed after him.

He might do it, Ilse thought. He was nearly as tall as Lord Kosenmark, nearly the same build. If only he could run fast enough.

She waited until the lane was empty, then crawled down the ladder, hugging the rails as close as she could. The ladder ended a few feet from the street. Ilse dropped down lightly. The moment she did, someone came up behind her and efficiently captured her. “Who are you?” said a man’s voice.

It was Herrick, one of the senior guards. “I’m Mistress Ilse,” she said. “I’ve come to warn Lord Kosenmark.”

Herrick muttered a curse. “I thought so. Come with me.”

He took her at a run down the lane and into Hansenau Square. At once, several other guards appeared. Herrick gave a password, and one guard pointed to an arched doorway across the square, where a tall figure was pacing back and forth. Even from this distance, Ilse could recognize Raul Kosenmark.

Raul came forward to meet them. “What is it? Why are you here?”

“My lord, we expect trouble,” Herrick said.

“More trouble, you mean,” Raul said. “But I take your point. Come with me, Mistress Ilse. Out of the middle of things.”

They left the middle of the square and squeezed into a recessed entryway, while Herrick and another guard took positions outside. “Now tell me, quickly, what has happened,” Raul said.

Ilse told him about Lord Dedrick and the murdered courier. “Khandarr, or whoever it is, sent at least three groups, maybe more. I sent two squads, just as you said, but one has disappeared. I don’t know where. The second squad engaged with one group a few streets away. Lord Dedrick led another group away.”

Raul swore under his breath. “You could not stop him?”

“I tried, but I—”

“My lord,” said Herrick. “We have more visitors.”

Raul drew his knife from his belt sheath. “Then we make ready. Ilse, stay behind me, please.”

A half dozen guards appeared from various points around the square. Six, Ilse thought with rising panic. That was not even half a squad. She jerked her gaze to Raul. “Why only six?”

Raul grimaced. “I did not wish to attract too much attention. Yes, I was wrong.”

He drew a second knife from his boot. Herrick and a guard named Klaus took positions to either side of Raul. They made an effective wall, but Ilse knew that one man down meant the wall would be breached. She took the knife from her boot and hefted it once. The hilt settled into her palm, but did not settle her nerves. She bit her lip and tried to remember her drills.

Fluid shadows swarmed from all three entries into the square. Within moments, the fight was joined, everyone moving too swiftly for Ilse to keep track of. Two of Raul’s guards went down within moments, but managed to take out three of their opponents before they fell. Herrick faced three at once. Raul and Klaus fought shoulder to shoulder against five heavily armed men, dressed in rough patched clothing. They looked like brigands; they moved like warriors.

Herrick went down, bleeding and jerking. One man he’d faced was on his knees, bleeding. Another was dead, but the third one went for Raul’s undefended side. Ilse threw herself at the man, slashing wildly with her knife.

The man spun around, parried her next stroke, and aimed at her face. Without thinking, Ilse flung up her arm. The leather guard split. Fire burned the length of her arm. Dodging another blow, she realized she was no longer by Raul’s side. She had no time to worry about that. The man lunged at her. She spun away and nearly skidded on something slippery. Blood. Her blood.

There was no time for her to be sick. The man was circling her, grinning. Her heart was banging against her ribs. Ilse forced down her terror. She gripped her knife, angling it upward as Maester Ault had taught her, and edged around to keep facing him. If I must die, I will die with a fight.

The man feinted left. But Ilse saw his weight shift in the other direction. When he hefted the knife to his other hand and brought it down, she sidestepped the blow and ducked under his arm. Her hand closed around his wrist, just long enough to deflect the blow and steady herself. She kicked out hard. He grunted and twisted around, but by then she had moved behind his attack. Using all the force she could muster, Ilse thrust her knife under his arm. The man dropped with a gurgling cry.

Ilse stared, sick and shocked. I did it. I stabbed him. I killed him.

She had no time to think more. A heavy arm flung itself around her throat. Ilse tried to twist free, but her attacker’s grip was too strong. She threw herself backwards. The man staggered. Ilse choked down a breath, kicked and hammered at the man’s shins. The man went down, with Ilse on top, and they rolled over and over, kicking and punching. One hard blow stunned Ilse. She fell back against the paving stones, cracking her head. Before she could recover, the man gripped her throat with both hands. Fighting for breath, she scrabbled at the hands with her nails, but her vision was already going dark.

Abruptly the hands fell away. A heavy thud sounded next to her. A dreadful gurgling sound. Then someone lifted her head from the hard stones. “Ilse? Ilse, can you breathe?”