The Silver Scar Page 29

  He turned and walked away, Windigo screaming after him. “I’ll tell them, Cassie, I’ll tell them what you done, what they don’t know. You’ll be back inside by the end of the year and I’ll cut you into pieces, have us a barbeque …”

  It almost stopped him—the threat Windigo had held over him, had whispered to him whenever Castile got uppity. But he could see the chain-link cage outside where two men in black circled each other.

  Trinidad was still in it, still standing. Still alive.

  Castile released a slow breath. Someone shifted in the shadows, cast long by the meager sun and distorting the familiar silhouette of Reine’s dreadlocks. More shadows appeared as his eyes adjusted to the light: the other tribal leaders. He yanked his cloak hood up, hid the rifle under the folds of fabric over his shoulders, and walked out into the daylight. With luck he’d look like an Indigo.

  “Good thing I’m not aiming to kill you just now,” he muttered to Reine.

  “You fool. Fuckin kill you if they find you here.” She didn’t take her eyes off the fight.

  Both men in the cage were covered head to toe in impassive black armor, but Castile knew Trin the second he saw him, the calculated way he moved, the measure of his steps. The other guy was bigger. “Who’s he fighting?”

  “Roman, they said. He trains them inparish.”

  Roman looked strong as a bull, outstripping Trinidad’s strikes with crashing blows. Trinidad feinted with his sword and swung a gauntleted fist at Roman’s head. Roman slapped his arm down easily. They both backed off a few steps.

  Fuck. The armsmaster. Trin had talked about the guy like he was a warrior aspect. “So is Trin—”

  It happened so fast he almost missed it. Roman slammed his sword at Trinidad’s shoulder, Trinidad barely got his bracer up in time. Roman’s blade skipped off his arm and smacked Trinidad’s helmet. Trinidad staggered back. Roman pressed him, crashing two more blows on him, forcing Trinidad to block with his sword—probably notching that precious blade of his—and step back. He was only a stride away from the fence, a stride away from getting pinned.

  Trinidad shook his head as if trying to clear it. Roman struck another blow and Trinidad killed its momentum by catching it mid-swing. They locked together, too close for blade-work. Roman elbowed Trinidad in the head; Trinidad wheeled away, still near the fence, but out of reach. He realigned his grip on his sword and limped backwards, his cadence off.

  Roman stalked Trinidad, measuring his strides, taking his time, waiting for the opportunity to strike a killing blow.

  Trinidad abruptly spun away, right boot out. His toe hit the fence and caught just enough to give him a leg up. He shoved off and came down twisting in the air and crashed onto Roman, sword first. It was an awkward hit. They tumbled to the ground, wrestling, slamming each other with elbows and fists. Trinidad’s helmet fell off and rolled. Thinking for a split second it was his head, Castile unconsciously took a few steps forward; Reine stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist. The group around them shifted and muttered uneasily and hands went for weapons.

  They rolled in the mud, splattering and grunting, wordless shouts. Castile realized Trin had his grip on his sword wrong; underhand. It was useless in this melee of fists anyway. Trinidad forced his weight on top of Roman and smashed the grip of his sword into Roman’s face. Helmet or no, Castile heard the blow where he stood. Roman’s head jerked to the side.

  “Yield,” Trinidad said. The harsh word carried across the yard.

  Castile had no breath to speak. Fuck, this is no time for that, Trin—

  Roman swung at Trinidad, Trin easily knocked his arm down. He grabbed Roman’s sword and threw it out of reach. “Yield.”

  To anyone else, Trinidad might look impassive, but the way his lips moved, his jaw tight … Castile could see agony in every line of his body.

  He can’t do it. He can’t kill him. He won’t.

  Trinidad drew back and hit Roman with the hilt of his sword gripped underhand in his fist, a full-on strike of blunt steel against his metal helmet. The armsmaster fell limp under him. Chest heaving, Trinidad got to his feet. Castile saw how he favored his left leg, smeared with bright blood. For a moment Trinidad looked down at Roman. Then he turned and looked at the other side of the cage where the bishop and her knot of archwardens were watching. All of them, even the bishop, had their hands on weapons. Trinidad was a sitting duck in the cage, trapped. They could spray him with one burst of bullets and end it.

  Castile broke free of Reine’s grip and strode forward, leaned on the fence with one hand, found the trigger of his rifle with the other. Trinidad might have won, but with a bunch of trigger-happy archwardens staring death at him, Castile wasn’t taking any chances.

  Trinidad pulled off his helmet. “Is this good enough?” he asked, his voice soft, deadly. “Or do I have to murder an unconscious man?”

  Roman rolled onto his side, silent, and reached for his sword.

  “Trin!”

  In that second, Roman rolled toward Trinidad and threw a wild punch at the side of Trinidad’s injured leg. Trinidad stumbled and spun at the same time, his sword coming up in a defensive sweep. The edge of it caught Roman under his raised chin. Blood spurted. He fell back, writhing, grappling at the wound.

  Trinidad flipped his sword to underhand. For a breath he held, stone-like, and then stabbed down with his blade, unerringly ripping through Roman’s exposed throat. He pulled the sword back, staggered back, and fell to his hands and knees. Blood ran red against his armored thigh.

  The prison field erupted. What few prisoners could see the fight shouted their approval for bloodshed and brutality. Guards shouted back at them. The archwardens shifted in unison, organized, running for the gate to the cage. Castile stuck his rifle barrel through the fence and sprayed the archwardens, some bullets pinging uselessly, others finding marks in the black-cloaked melee. Four of the five fell; one kept running. His cloak hood slipped back to reveal mottled scarring. Wolf. Fuck. He could have killed the kid.

  The bishop ran the opposite direction from them, bared steel in her hands. Alone, she moved quicker. She fumbled with the latch on the gate and threw it open to rush Trinidad from behind. Castile shouted wordlessly and fired at her. The bullet missed, pinging off-course through the chain-link. Castile swore and took aim again. The trigger locked under his finger. Fuck! Jammed. Castile beat the rifle against the fence and tried it again. Nothing.

  Wolf bolted after her into the cage and fell on Marius, trying to drag her back. She shoved him off, spun, and stabbed her sword into his unarmored chest. It sank half-way in and she yanked it back. Wolf gaped at her as blood jetted from him. She shoved him off her blade with her other hand and he crumpled.

  Castile ran around the fence toward the opening, slamming the useless rifle against the fence again. The trigger still jammed.

  Marius reached Trinidad, sword raised in both hands, point aimed for his throat. He twisted, trying to get his blade up to deflect her blow. Her point skipped off his breastplate and caught in the narrow join where it met his shoulder armor. She shoved, hard, throwing her body into it. Trinidad’s mouth opened in a soundless scream. Or maybe it was lost in the commotion, in the whup of a bowstring near Castile’s ear and a muttered curse. The bishop slumped against Trinidad with a sharp cry, a feathered shaft jutting from one side of her back, in the mesh-protected joint by her arm.

  Next to him, Reine had her bowstring to her cheek, another arrow already nocked. “Go get him.”

  Castile ran to Trinidad, falling to his knees and shoving the limp bishop off him.

  “Cas …” Blood bubbled crimson on Trinidad’s lips.

  “Shh, don’t talk. Don’t talk.” Castile laid his fingers under Trinidad’s jaw, found his skittering pulse. He bent low and kissed Trinidad’s cold lips, tasted blood.

  Trinidad didn’t kiss him back, he just gasped a raspy breath.

  “You’re okay. We’ll get you out.” Moving him would only make the blood flow
faster. No time. No place to go. No help—

  The putt-putt-putt of a weapon made him press low over Trinidad, who moaned.

  “Castile.”

  Castile looked up, dazed. Reine had walked around the fence with her bow. Several prison guards scattered the outside of the fence, stuck with arrows. More black-cloaked archwardens sprawled in the churned mud like fallen bats. Castile’s eye fell on one who had taken his turn at torturing him in prison. Malachi. How did he remember that name? Reine’s fellow tribal leaders were holding back more prison guards with a few well-placed shots.

  “Looks bad.” Reine nocked another arrow. “Want me to put him out of his misery?”

  “No! Fuck, no.” Castile grabbed the pentacle hanging from his neck, rubbing it compulsively. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Fuckin pick him up then.”

  He heaved Trinidad up. Trinidad was unconscious and limp now; he made no sound as Castile and Reine maneuvered him onto Castile’s shoulder. Castile didn’t speak, could barely draw breath under Trinidad’s dead weight. He just ran, stumbling and bent, back the way he’d come. The Indigos covered them; the guards had recovered enough to snipe a few bullets their way. It was half-hearted, though.

  They cut behind the cover of some solid-walled cages and the bullets stopped. Reine was breathing hard. “Why aren’t the guards chasing us?”

  “We’re above their paygrade,” Castile said, staggering under Trinidad’s weight.

  “They’ll be calling in marshals,” Cur said, huffing behind them. Catcalls started up down the hall.

  Castile stopped in front Windigo’s cage. “Where can we hide? Somewhere they won’t go.”

  Windigo just chuckled and shook his head.

  “Friend of yours?” Reine asked.

  Castile shook his head, shifted to better distribute Trinidad’s weight. He needed Windigo’s help, gods help him, Castile needed him again. And he’d alienated the son of a bitch, let his temper get to him. If he’d lied, if he’d been able to stomach a little more pretending …

  Reine raised her bow. “You got three seconds.”

  “You point that thing at me you best shoot—”

  Castile jolted at the twang of the bowstring, almost dropped Trinidad on the concrete floor. Cur stepped forward to grab some of the archwarden’s weight.

  Windigo fell in a shower of blood and gore, two feathered shafts jutting from his chest. His new bitch screamed from the darkness behind him.

  Reine yanked another arrow free of her quiver and laid it on the string. “Start talking. Three. Two—”

  “Fuckin no one goin down pipes today! We’re on lockdown!”

  Reine peered into the darkness. “You’re Indigo?”

  Windigo’s boy swallowed audibly and crawled out into the dim light. “No. Amber.” He cowered by the bars, edging away from Windigo’s body. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Castile swallowed and averted his eyes. His knees started to give way under the weight of the unconscious Trinidad.

  “Castile, right?” From behind him. Castile turned his head to look. The big pale archwarden, cross glaring against his white forehead, walked toward them. His blade was out but he slid it back into its scabbard. “Let me take him,” he said.

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him.”

  Castile didn’t like letting go of Trinidad but he couldn’t hold him much longer. He transferred him with a grunt and eyed the archwarden. Reine, though, was still interested in the Amber.

  “He’s right,” Castile said. “No one’s going to the pipes today.”

  “Can’t leave him sitting in all that gore—” Reine began. “He’s just a kid. Why are you in, kid?”

  “Stealing.”

  A beat. Two. Castile’s eyes stung, his throat closed. Please. Lord and Lady, hear me. Trinidad hung, bleeding and broken between the two men. Was he even breathing? Hunter, please make him breathe. Keep him breathing.

  “Trin doesn’t have time for this.” He started walking. He knew a nearby pipe room.

  “Fuckin don’t deserve to be someone’s bitch, not for stealing,” Reine called. “He ain’t like you, Castile.”

  The inmates jeered at the comment.

  Castile turned to stare at her, heart pounding. “No. He’s not like me.”

  Reine cast a glare around the hallway, at the inmates watching with interest. She nudged the chest of a slim Indigo with brown skin and a hard face. “You make sure it’s clear but keep low. Get the kid out. Anyone chases us to the pipes, fuckin clean house in this hallway. You got me?”

  “Sure, Queen.” The Indigo nodded and ran down the hallway, fleet and silent as a deer.

  The sewer room was lit by a battery-powered light; Castile found it in the dark. Sewage stench rose up like ghosts in the basement room. They found a bare spot to lay Trinidad down, as far away from the open hole that led to the main line as they could find. All the Indigos pulled their scarves up and glanced around at the tangle of pipes. How many times had Castile found that light, dropped down into one of those tunnels with a shovel to dig out the bowels of the prison? No time to think of it now. He pulled at Trinidad’s armor, shifting him to strip it off him, baring his wounds. More blood flowed. Trinidad’s pulse was weak, his body cold—

  Castile turned to Reine. “Give me his sword.”

  Reine looked down at the sword in her hand like she’d forgotten it. She handed it over, awkwardly. The leather wrap on the hilt was damp with sweat. Dried blood crusted the blade.

  “Now. Hit me.”

  “You fool—”

  She wasn’t going to do it. He could see it in her face. She’d softened toward him. “It’s his only chance. Knock me the fuck out, right fucking now. Do the right thing, for once in your miserable—”

  Reine crashed her fist into Castile’s head just as he reached for Trinidad. All the colors of the world shattered into silver. Castile leapt to his feet, sinking into the sand, feeling the warm, dead air on his skin, and spun, staring around frantically, the sword a foreign weight in his hand. He screamed Trinidad’s name into the silence, over and over. But for nothing. Trinidad wasn’t here.

  FIFTY

  Trinidad had one thing on his mind. He’d seen the bishop coming, seen her slash through Wolf’s throat, knocking him down. He’d seen all the blood, so much blood, and he knew it was too late. He burst toward Marius with the last of his energy, the rove solid and sure.

  He stood in the labyrinth in the churchyard, bathed in sunlight. A warm day, warm enough he instinctively wanted to take his shirt off, feel the sun on his skin. Cas always burned in the sun but Trinidad loved the feel of it, the prickling flush of color. He looked down to see if the sun had colored him brown yet, like his papa had always said.

  His shirt was bloody with a growing crimson stain. He pulled the shirt off, found the deep gash right where two points of the silver pentacle met. He knew the sort of wound it was. He felt the edge with his fingers. More hot blood. He drew a deep breath, testing, and coughed. Tasted blood in his mouth. No pain though. It all came back to him. Roman. He thought of his armsmaster, the giant gouge he’d left in his neck. They’d been fighting, but he hadn’t wanted to do it.

  The memory got fuzzy after that—until Castile kissed him. Then the world, and pain, had swept over him, stealing his breath. He shuddered, wishing for Cas now. But that was just a dream. Castile couldn’t come inparish. They’d tried that once and look how it had turned out.

  The churchyard was quiet. He wanted to sit down. He was sleepy and warm in the sun.

  “Trinidad.”

  Trinidad turned, hating the voice but unable to fight obeying it.

  Bishop Marius sat on the low stone wall around the labyrinth, bent crookedly. Blood stained her robes under her arm and dripped from the hem.

  “Your Grace,” he said cautiously, nodding his head to her.

  Her eyes widened as they lit on his scar. She gestured faintly with her sword, which she t
hen laid across her thighs with a grimace. “Polite to the death, eh? Sit.”

  Trinidad’s knees buckled. He sank down to the stones of the labyrinth. A voice deep inside, buried there by training, protested: Up, archwarden. You go down now, you’re staying down. Something Roman had always said.

  “I didn’t want to kill him.” He loved him as a brother, as a soldier, as a friend.

  “I know.”

  He bowed his head. It was quiet here. He could stretch out on the sun-warmed stones and sleep for days. How long had it been since he’d really slept?

  “I would have taken you in, you know,” Marius said. She ran her finger along the sword blade that lay across her lap. The edge was stained with blood. “Groomed you. You were the best fighter in the order. You could have been its leader, taken Paul’s place.”

  He shook his head. “You’re lying.”

  “Not about this.”

  He tried again. “I only meant to protect Father Troy.”

  “And you failed.”

  The truth tightened its noose around his heart. Father Troy was gone. He hadn’t been able to protect him.

  “You’re going to stop the crusade?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Look at me. Am I in any condition to wage war? No doubt they’ll condemn me and martyr you and it will all fall apart.” She sighed. “It could end Church rule, you know.”

  Trinidad thought of the Barren, wished he had the strength left to rove himself there. He’d like to feel the warm sand on his feet again, just once, and listen to the tiny bells and the silence. “Perhaps.” Was that a bad thing? He didn’t have the energy to think it through.

  “I suppose you think your Wiccan friends are the ones who should rule.”

  Trinidad shook his head slowly. None of us should. Or all of us. He wasn’t certain which. “I don’t think Castile would say that.”

  Castile … the noose cinched tighter. He looked down. Blood flowed in a red river through the silver valleys Reine had scored in his skin. He closed his eyes and only pried them open at Marius’ voice.