Read Online A Sliver of Redemption by David Dalglish - Free Book Online
Authors: David Dalglish
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Deathmask insisted. “No guards have spotted us, so don’t lie to keep me from thinking rationally.”
Veliana giggled, much louder than he anticipated or preferred. Her entire face and hair were covered with dirt. It was their best attempt to hide the long scar across her eye that might mark her as the vigilante Blade. She waved an arm wide, and sang a bad lyric about a peasant girl and a ruffian burglar who came upon her bathing. They had purposefully avoided patrols on their way to the many steps leading up to the castle, but no longer.
“Now it’s too late,” she giggled as guards approached. Deathmask counted twenty together in the pack and felt proud in knowing that he, ‘the Ghost’, was the main reason they travelled in such large numbers.
“Hey,” Deathmask said, slurring his words and tugging Veliana forward. “Hey you guys!”
The patrol surrounded them, the Lionsguard swarming with weapons drawn. Three priests were with them, watching the events from a few paces back.
“What is your business being out this late at night?” one of the priests asked.
“We want to join,” Veliana said, pointing a finger at one of the Lionsguard with a hand that just happened to contain a rather large and empty bottle. The guard yanked away the bottle, ignoring her whimper.
“Drunkards,” the priest said after a quick sniff of the bottle. “You should be well aware this is illegal.”
“Well, yeah,” Deathmask said. He let his eyes focus and unfocus on the priest, but kept his smile locked tight. “See, we thought if we were you, then it would be legal, you know?”
“We want to join!” Veliana said again, rubbing her fingers across a guard’s arm. “Be fun, right? Good money?”
She let her fingers slide from the guard’s armor to her own chest and then giggled naughtily at the look he gave her.
“Fun?” he asked.
“Arrest them,” the priest said. “No need to let such riffraff disturb our streets. A few days in a cell will teach them Karak’s opinion on such distasteful displays.”
Deathmask tensed while Veliana continued to flirt with the guard, completely oblivious to what the priest was saying. She sucked on one finger while hugging herself with her other arm. When the guards grabbed her, only then did she seem to react.
“Wait,” she said. “What did we do wrong?”
A mailed fist struck the back of her head, and down she went. Deathmask shouted curses freely as two men held his arms. Another fist struck him, but it took two more times before he slumped, a limp sack of bone and muscle, ready for delivery to the castle prison.
W hen Deathmask came to, he opened his eyes, looked left, looked right, and then very calmly said, “Fuck.”
Veliana was gone, which was already a deviation from their original plan. The two had expected to be placed together in a holding cell of some sort, where they could be kept under control while the imaginary alcohol in their system cleared out. The second problem, and the one that elicited the crude response, was that he was not in a cell at all. He was chained to a wall at the very entrance to the prison, in clear view of over eight guards. To his right were the barred double-doors leading up to the castle grounds. Across from him, tables of guards played cards and rolled dice. Along the wall behind them, rows and rows of clubs.
“I hear you,” came a voice to his left. Deathmask looked over to see an elderly man with graying hair and half his original teeth, his arms chained to the wall above his head. When he talked, his voice grumbled and cracked. “You think, just one drink, right? Just one, and then you wake up in here, and the question, you see, the question is, is your splitting skull from the drink or from where those damn guards smacked you?”
“Yeah,” Deathmask said. “Something like that.”
“Name’s Dunk,” the man said while Deathmask shifted and checked his shackles. Thick iron, and painfully tight. His wrists were
Veliana giggled, much louder than he anticipated or preferred. Her entire face and hair were covered with dirt. It was their best attempt to hide the long scar across her eye that might mark her as the vigilante Blade. She waved an arm wide, and sang a bad lyric about a peasant girl and a ruffian burglar who came upon her bathing. They had purposefully avoided patrols on their way to the many steps leading up to the castle, but no longer.
“Now it’s too late,” she giggled as guards approached. Deathmask counted twenty together in the pack and felt proud in knowing that he, ‘the Ghost’, was the main reason they travelled in such large numbers.
“Hey,” Deathmask said, slurring his words and tugging Veliana forward. “Hey you guys!”
The patrol surrounded them, the Lionsguard swarming with weapons drawn. Three priests were with them, watching the events from a few paces back.
“What is your business being out this late at night?” one of the priests asked.
“We want to join,” Veliana said, pointing a finger at one of the Lionsguard with a hand that just happened to contain a rather large and empty bottle. The guard yanked away the bottle, ignoring her whimper.
“Drunkards,” the priest said after a quick sniff of the bottle. “You should be well aware this is illegal.”
“Well, yeah,” Deathmask said. He let his eyes focus and unfocus on the priest, but kept his smile locked tight. “See, we thought if we were you, then it would be legal, you know?”
“We want to join!” Veliana said again, rubbing her fingers across a guard’s arm. “Be fun, right? Good money?”
She let her fingers slide from the guard’s armor to her own chest and then giggled naughtily at the look he gave her.
“Fun?” he asked.
“Arrest them,” the priest said. “No need to let such riffraff disturb our streets. A few days in a cell will teach them Karak’s opinion on such distasteful displays.”
Deathmask tensed while Veliana continued to flirt with the guard, completely oblivious to what the priest was saying. She sucked on one finger while hugging herself with her other arm. When the guards grabbed her, only then did she seem to react.
“Wait,” she said. “What did we do wrong?”
A mailed fist struck the back of her head, and down she went. Deathmask shouted curses freely as two men held his arms. Another fist struck him, but it took two more times before he slumped, a limp sack of bone and muscle, ready for delivery to the castle prison.
W hen Deathmask came to, he opened his eyes, looked left, looked right, and then very calmly said, “Fuck.”
Veliana was gone, which was already a deviation from their original plan. The two had expected to be placed together in a holding cell of some sort, where they could be kept under control while the imaginary alcohol in their system cleared out. The second problem, and the one that elicited the crude response, was that he was not in a cell at all. He was chained to a wall at the very entrance to the prison, in clear view of over eight guards. To his right were the barred double-doors leading up to the castle grounds. Across from him, tables of guards played cards and rolled dice. Along the wall behind them, rows and rows of clubs.
“I hear you,” came a voice to his left. Deathmask looked over to see an elderly man with graying hair and half his original teeth, his arms chained to the wall above his head. When he talked, his voice grumbled and cracked. “You think, just one drink, right? Just one, and then you wake up in here, and the question, you see, the question is, is your splitting skull from the drink or from where those damn guards smacked you?”
“Yeah,” Deathmask said. “Something like that.”
“Name’s Dunk,” the man said while Deathmask shifted and checked his shackles. Thick iron, and painfully tight. His wrists were
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