Ironshield Page 19

  A valet backed up Samuel's car and climbed out. "Your vehicle, Sir!"

  "Thank you." Samuel opened the back door. "Let's go, Paulson."

  "I never gave anyone the key, Sam."

  “What did I tell you about calling me—"

  Samuel turned back to the white-coated man, a strong-jawed fellow with a touch of unshaven stubble about his cheeks and sunken eyes. Something shined on the man's collar that tugged on Samuel's memory. He didn't have time to place where he recognized it from just then, as the valet reached into his coat.

  Samuel had his saber half-drawn before the valet's gun was even visible. His weapon struck the man’s pistol across the barrel. Samuel turned the blade, slashing the bastard's fingers in the same quick motion. The assassin's shot went wide as he dropped his weapon with a curse. He recovered quick, however, tugging a long dagger from his sleeve and using it to parry Samuel's saber. Knocking Samuel's blade aside, the assassin lunged forward for a killing thrust.

  Another gunshot sounded. Samuel's attacker stumbled and fell face-first on the ground.

  "Sam?!" Paulson trod over, his smoking revolver still trained on the fallen man. "Are you hurt?"

  Samuel slammed his saber into its scabbard and knelt to inspect his would-be killer. "Don't be dead, you son of a whore." He turned the assassin over. "Not until you tell me who hired you."

  The man stared up from wide, bloodshot eyes, emitting a low gurgle from his throat. Around him, blood soaked into the gravel, giving off steam in the chilly air.

  "Who was it? Who sent you?" Samuel slapped the man across the face. "Tell me, bastard!"

  The assassin stiffened, and rattled out his last breath.

  Samuel held the body for a few seconds before letting it drop. "Damn."

  "Sam, that pin."

  Samuel pulled the shining object off the dead assassin's collar. Yes, he did recognize it, how could he not?

  The shape was that of a Gearsword, the symbol of the Northern rebel flag. An Industrialist officer’s pin.

  Chapter 13

  "Aye! Four beers over here," called a slurred voice from a table in the corner of the tavern.

  "Get up and carry them yourself, then," Harald the barkeeper replied as he moved from one table to another, balancing a tray of empty mugs with one hand and holding a washcloth in the other.

  James watched a billiards game happening at one of the two tables in front of the bar, sipping from a lukewarm ale.

  Harald wiped down a vacated table next to James. "Shouldn't be drinking on the job, Ben," he muttered.

  Ben Gunther, the name James had purchased, complete with the dead Appeaser's military records to match. Private Gunther's credentials had helped James evade capture long enough to secure this job as a bouncer in this far north mining town.

  "You should be happy I choose to buy your swill, discounted or not. Then again, you don’t pay me enough to drink anywhere decent." He raised his ale in a lazy toast. "You’re a clever man, Harald."

  Harald rolled his eyes. "You're lucky we put up with you."

  "Don't I know it."

  "Oi, back off!" A burly worker shoved the local smiling drunk on the other side of the room. "I don't know you, and by the smell, I don't want to."

  "C-hic-c'mon," Mack attempted to throw his arm over the larger man's shoulder.

  "I said back. Off." Another shove, this time more forceful. Mack went stumbling back into a pillar.

  "Better do something about that," Harald said.

  James drained his glass and slid it across the table. "I'm on it. Get me a refill while I'm at it, would you?" He rose and crossed the smoky room.

  "Easy there, fella," James got between the angry patron and Mack. "He doesn't mean nothing by it."

  "I don't give a shit what he means. Just get him out of my sight before I knock his teeth in."

  Tooth is more like it. "Alright. Come on, Mack, that's enough for one night."

  "Ah, Ben! No need to -hic- worry yourself about me," Mack slurred as he allowed James to walk him out the door. "That one, he reminded me o' my nephew. Died in the war, y'see."

  "Sorry to hear it, Mack."

  "Me, I was declared -hic- 'unfit for combat duty.' Too old, y'see. But I..." He drifted off. Then, Mack's shoulders shook. "I wanted to enlist, so maybe I could keep him...keep him safe."

  "You're drunk, Mack." James patted him on the shoulder. "Go home, sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow."

  "Hope you're right, Ben." Mack stumbled away, his breath misting in the crisp air.

  James watched him leave for a moment, wondering what side Mack had tried to give his life to. If his nephew had been in the Southern army, it was possible that an order of James' had led to his demise.

  If so, the kid's own commanders have just as much blood on their hands, James told himself. He wondered if he still believed it.

  James turned away from Mack's diminishing figure and came face to face with a pair of officers in the Arkenian red and brown.

  "Oh, hello again, Ben." Lieutenant Ian Prentiss removed a glove and reached for a handshake.

  Feeling as stiff as a wooden beam, James accepted, releasing the soldier's grip perhaps a little too fast. "Surprised you folks are still kicking around way up here," he remarked. "Figured you'd be moving on to bigger and better things."

  "Oh, we are," Prentiss said as they proceeded into the warm tavern. "It's Dieter and I's last night in Goethegar. Then it's back to the barracks in Talenport to train recruits."

  "Not that there's much need for them," the sullen-faced Dieter said. "Peace time's bad business, in this job."

  Prentiss slapped his partner on the arm. "This one complained just as much during the wars. Don't worry about him, Ben. There's just no pleasing some folk."

  "Fair enough." James’ mouth was dry. "Well, back to work for me. You gentlemen enjoy yourselves." He stopped by the bar on the way back to his table and reached over it, pouring himself another ale from the tap. James caught Harald's glare and winked. He was pretty sure the man wouldn't fire him. It had already been a year, after all.

  What would it matter if he did? James took a long gulp of tepid ale as he settled back into his seat. Wouldn't change much. You'd just have to find a new nowhere town with a tavern in need of cheap muscle. Then again, it wasn't him he'd have to worry about. Annabelle... She'd already given up so much for him. Fled her parents' farmhouse villa to this backwater, sacrificing her status, her inheritance, everything. All to marry a fugitive.

  Everything had happened so fast. A dizzying fever dream of grief, anger and fear as James made his way through wild paths and seldom-traveled country roads until, one night during a rainstorm, he'd taken shelter in a stable. That was where she found him.

  Things had evolved quickly over the course of those weeks. Desperate lust gave way to something else, something James thought must be love. They'd married in secret after eloping together, once he'd secured an assumed identity, and proceeded farther north to find somewhere safe. That had been early last fall, and though they both cared deeply for one another, James couldn't unsee the doubt and frustration he saw growing inside his wife. Everything had happened too quickly.

  Failing at love, same as I did at war. James took another draught of ale. Figures.

  "Mind if we sit with you, Ben?"

  James looked up. Prentiss and Dieter had come over. The lieutenant held three shot glasses, each filled with amber liquid.

  The words 'I'm on duty' were on the tip of James' tongue, but that excuse would hardly work as he sat here drinking. "Help yourselves." He gestured at the chairs across from him.

  "Much obliged." Prentiss and his partner settled into their seats. The lieutenant slid one of the glasses across to James.

  "Oh, I can't." James waved away the offer.

  "Bah, of course you can. In a one-horse town like this, what's the worst that could happen?"

  James shrugged. Being under the scrutiny of these two put him on edge. In his position, that was a
dangerous state to be in. James took the drink and he and Prentiss clinked glasses before slamming the liquor back. Northern Whiskey, about as smooth as kerosene and twice as flammable. James wouldn't be surprised if the stuff could power an automobile.

  Dieter made no move to drink from the remaining glass.

  "Hey, Ben, where's that billiards case you've always got stashed nearby?"

  James' chair creaked as he spun around, heart leaping for his throat. But the case was there, leaning in the shadowed corner behind him. He didn't dare leave it in the apartment above for fear it would get stolen in a break-in. Or, more likely, Annabelle would finally have had enough of the danger it carried and dispose of it while James worked.

  What was in that case was the most important item James owned, the only heirloom he could lay claim to. The only real link he had to who he really was.

  "Gave you a fright there, didn't I, Ben?" Prentiss put a particular inflection on the name, and when James turned to him, he saw in the man's eyes that Prentiss had seen the case there from the beginning. He'd tested James to see how he'd react. This wasn't a friendly drink. It was an interrogation.

  Fuck.

  James shrugged and grinned, hoping to mask his unease. "It's a special set."

  "Special. Like a family keepsake?"

  James chuckled. "Nah, my folks would never have been able to afford a cue like this." He jerked a thumb at the case. "Saved up a month's pay for that stick." Ben Gunther's family had been poor, right? James could have sworn he'd read something about that.

  Prentiss threw back his head and laughed. "A dedicated player! You work in the right spot for it." He slid Dieter's untouched glass toward James.

  James waved the offer off in what he hoped was a casual enough gesture. "Not as good as you'd think," he said. "A beer here or there's no big deal, but the last thing the bar needs is its bouncer bent over a table when trouble starts."

  Prentiss snapped his fingers. "Barkeep! A refill."

  By Harald's scowl, he would have preferred to throw his tray of mugs at the soldier. Seeming to think better of a rebuttal, the heavyset barkeeper stormed over to his liquor shelf and pulled down a whiskey bottle.

  "Here." He all but slammed it onto their table. "It can go on my bouncer's tab, since he seems to be enjoying his work so much."

  If only you knew. James flashed his boss a sheepish grin. "No problem, Harald."

  "Harald! Knew I had your name rattling in my head somewhere. So sorry, I'd forget my head if Diets wasn't around to keep it screwed on."

  "Don't sweat it, soldier," Harald replied without losing his sour expression. "You'll have to excuse me. Might not look busy here, but I've still got lots to do before we close up."

  "Right you are!" Prentiss exclaimed. "It doesn't look busy at all. Why, your billiards table over there’s gathering dust!"

  No.

  "Come to think of it, your man Ben here was just telling us about his custom cue." Prentiss nodded to the case leaning in the corner. "I don't suppose it would be too much trouble to borrow your security for a game?"

  James poured out two more shots of whiskey from the new bottle, if for no other purpose than to mask his nerves. "Come on, fellas, I don't want to push it."

  "Well, that's a first," Harald scoffed. "At this point, what do I care? At least it gets him out of his skulking corner. Go ahead, Ben." Harald walked away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  Prentiss took one of the glasses James had filled and downed it. "There we have it, Benny Boy. Let's have ourselves a game."

  "'fraid the whiskey's getting to my head," James said. "I'd be useless."

  "All the better!" said Prentiss. "I'm a terrible player. We should be even. After all, they wouldn't put billiards tables in taverns if only sober folk were supposed to play."

  "It's just not a good time for me."

  Prentiss' smile drew down into an even line. "But you have the cue down here all the same, don't you?"

  Dieter leaned forward.

  "Always scared the wife will sell the damned thing," James insisted.

  "Let's see it, Ben," Prentiss said, his voice low.

  "I'd rather not."

  Dieter lifted a hand from under the table and laid a revolver down, muzzle facing James.

  "I'm not asking," Prentiss said. "Show us what's in the case. And while you're at it, you can explain why you stole a dead officer's identity."

  Officer? "I never made it above private."

  "Ben Gunther did," said Prentiss. "He was promoted to sergeant posthumously, for his valor under fire. The man died a war hero, though it took months after the war and petitions by his family to have his deeds recognized. How surprised they must have been when they got word their dead son was employed in a shithole northern tavern." Prentiss took one of the remaining drinks and raised it with a wink. "Bad luck, boy. Had you picked another enlisted man we might not have found you. But impersonating an officer, even a dead one, is a serious enough crime to get you noticed."

  "Especially a dead one." Dieter wrinkled his nose. "No respect. Typical for a piece of rebel trash."

  Over Prentiss' shoulder, James caught a nervous glance from Harald. The bartender leaned over a cards table, whispering to the players. They filed out of the room soon after, grumbling among themselves.

  The worker from earlier remained seated at the bar, waving off Harald's hushed plea.

  James picked up his drink and clinked it against Dieter’s untouched glass.

  Prentiss grinned.

  "For Ben." James poured the whiskey onto the carpet.

  The moment the last drop fell, James hurled the glass into Dieter's face. In the same move, James flung himself back against his chair, kicking the table over as he fell. Dieter's revolver let off a deafening shot, spraying plaster from the wall above James' head.

  Prentiss leapt to his feet, drawing his sword, a standard cavalry saber, with a shout.

  James reached back and brought the billiards case forward, blocking the lieutenant's blade. Meanwhile, Dieter swayed where he stood, pulling shards of glass from his bleeding face, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Prentiss lifted his blade and moved in for a thrust.

  Still on his back, James shuffled aside and brought a foot up between them. He put as much force as he could muster into a kick to the lieutenant's midriff, knocking Prentiss back.

  James unsnapped the clasp on his billiards case and reached inside.

  Another gunshot filled the closed space, bursting a smoking hole through the carpet beside James. Dieter, face dripping crimson and one eye a gored mess, brought his shaking pistol to bear for another shot.

  The burly worker from earlier popped into the fray. He grabbed Dieter's gun arm and shoved the struggling man against the wall, his upward-pointed pistol between them.

  Prentiss bore down on James again. This time, James managed to get a grip on the object in his case. He pulled his own saber forth, still in its scabbard.

  Prentiss' blade struck the scabbard with a clack, spilling shards of lacquer from splintered wood.

  Grabbing the other end of the weapon, James drew half a foot of his blade.

  Prentiss yanked his own weapon upward, taking James' scabbard with it.

  The Ironshield ignition saber slid free and fell to the floor.

  James looked to his weapon, laying a few feet away from him.

  Prentiss went for a downward slash. James flattened himself to the floor and kicked his assailant in the shin with the heel of one boot, then drove the other into Prentiss' stomach.

  The slash missed as the lieutenant doubled over.

  James rolled to his feet, put his fists together, and slammed them down on Prentiss' back, sending the other man crashing to the floor.

  James hopped over him, intent on recovering his weapon.

  Just then, Dieter managed to shove his opponent back. James dove, hearing the crack of Dieter's gun and the whistle of the bullet passing him. He managed to grab hold of his sabe
r and brought it up in a slash, catching Dieter in the arm.

  The man dropped his gun, which James kicked aside. The worker moved in on Dieter again as James turned toward Prentiss. Not too soon, either, because the man was back on his feet and lunging after James.

  Their blades clashed, creating a flash of sparks as they scraped against one another. Prentiss' eyes flickered to the handguard of James' saber, to the shield insignia stamped onto the steel.

  "Not just a rebel," Prentiss said with something approaching awe. "The Ironshield himself."

  "By the Savior, take this out of my tavern!" Harald pled from behind the bar.

  "Shut your mouth," James called back. "I quit."

  Prentiss made another pass, striking his blade against James' in a wide stroke before returning with a backswing.

  James parried the strike downward and swiped for his opponent's neck, but Prentiss stepped back to dodge the slash.

  Another gunshot split the air, and James' unknown ally stumbled back, clutching his stomach.

  Dieter swung his pistol toward James, just as Prentiss came forward with a thrust. James knocked the blade to the left, in the same move grabbing his opponent by the coat and shoving him. Dieter's bullet struck Prentiss behind the right shoulder.

  The man barely had time to cry out before James kicked him toward his partner. As Prentiss crashed into Dieter, James moved to help the workman off the floor.

  "Go, Sir!" he cried, gut bleeding through his fingers. "Iron and Pride." It was an Industrialist motto from the Civil War. Hearing the words and seeing the man’s face up close jogged James’ memory. He’d met this man before, limping away from the destruction at Quarrystone. James remembered, he’d told the soldier to help as many as he could, or he would find him later. As it turned out, that nameless soldier had found James instead.

  Beside James, Dieter lowered an injured Prentiss to the ground and lifted his pistol once more.