Leybound Chapter Fifty-One | A Butchers Blade

Riot kicked one of the stones from the pile that remained of the arcanist tower. It seemed like a regular stone, and he marveled at whatever art had made it impenetrable and able to stand for hundreds of years.

This was the last place that anyone had seen Natalia Quinn, and though he knew she wouldn’t be there, he had still returned each day to check. 

“You don’t have to go back, you know; my offer still stands,” Riot said. 

“You’re going?” Loic asked. 

“I figure I do better when I stand and fight.”

“Then I’ll go back, for a while anyway. You’ll be dead by summer without me. What did you get out of Moran?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve been granted an audience today.”

“Well, I guess that’s it. See you in Helgans Rest; I’ll make sure they save you a nice damp cell.”

The northman dropped the huge axe through the loop on his belt and saluted, walking away in the direction of the harbor, where the tall ship masts swayed gently over the tops of the buildings.

The winding road led Riot up to the larger houses in the west of the citadel until he reached the one that had the symbol of the sun cresting a tall tower. The guards greeted him warmly enough. They were two of the survivors from the hard trek over the hills. 

Walden Moran was on the large balcony that overlooked the city; the view seemed strange without the tower dominating the sky. The arcanist had never looked at home while trekking through the hills. He had tried to play the part of a soldier, but this was where he belonged, wearing a fine jacket and soft shoes. 

“Sergeant! You are looking well. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but I have been rather busy. I have no doubt you have questions.”

Riot sat and stretched his leg, sighing at the tug of the other wound Price had left him with.

“So they’ve buggered off then?” Riot said. 

“For now, yes. After they lost their commander, their appetite quite deserted them.” 

"You really killed him?” 

Moran nodded, his lips pressed against his steepled fingers. “I didn’t want to, but he pressed me. I did tell you I was a rather talented duelist.”

“I thought you meant with a sword,” Riot muttered. 

“Be serious, sergeant, I’m not some common thug. Which reminds me.” 

Moran called for a valet, who brought him a sword. It was the long, Faelen blade that Price had used against him. 

“This blade was made in the echo during the long incarceration of the Faelen. It’s not particularly valuable and frankly rather unwieldy, but for someone tall, it would serve for hacking away at things, and I immediately thought of you.” Walden passed the blade to Riot with a barely disguised smile. 

“Where is Price?” Riot replied, ignoring the sword. 

Moran smiled. “What if I told you that he died from his injuries? Would that satisfy you? It is probable after all, you gave him quite an injury.”

“I should have blown a hole in his chest.” 

Moran pouted. “Come now, sergeant; he was prepared to spare you.”

“He was going to cut my damn eye out! And how do you know he would have spared me?” 

Moran grimaced. “It seems I have let the cat out of the bag, doesn’t it? What I will say is that allies are found in strange places; wouldn’t you agree? After all, you and Loic seem to count each other as comrades now, and I would like to think that even you and I share some bond of fraternity.”

“So Price works for you now?” 

“You know the man well enough to know that he does not work for anyone. But there might come a day in the future that we would be glad to have him fighting with us rather than against us.” 

It wasn’t an answer, and now Riot wouldn’t be able to sleep without a sharp blade in his hand. 

“Sumner Nixton is your father.”

Another grimace. “Embarrassing as it is to admit, yes.” 

“Did he die in the tower?” 

“You’ve met the man; what do you think?”

“Rats don’t go down with sinking ships.” 

Moran laughed. “An apt comparison. Sumner Nixton likely fled to one of his other lairs, but he held up his terms of the guild treaty nonetheless, and so I am Lord of Morbian, the ancient seat of my mother's house.” 

A silence extended between them. 

“I sense we are nearing the subject you would most like to ask me about?” Moran asked. 

“Where is she?”

“Natalia Quinn was last seen entering the tower base; moments later, there was an explosion, and the tower fell. Her body was not discovered among the ruins, though I feel we both know she is too astute to be killed. Her motives are unclear; I was wondering if you might shed some light on the matter?”

Riot had thought of nothing else for the last week while he lay in the infirmary bed, his face causing him excruciating pain each time he blinked or tried to eat or drink. He had tried to recall each and every conversation with Natalia, anything she might have said during the long hours of training or the night spent together in the hills, but she had given nothing away.

“Roveran and the wikkan wanted the tower gone, thats all I can think. It was a risk.” Riot said. 

“I must say that I agree with you, and if so, my father was outsmarted; this lends me some satisfaction.” 

“Still, she betrayed us,” Riot said. 

“I would set the record straight on that point. How do you think I found you?”

Riot blinked; he hadn’t thought of that. Moran had been fighting a duel; it would have made sense for him to go straight to the tower.

“I ran into Natalia Quinn at the tower, and she told me where you were. I didn’t much question it at the time, but she might very well have saved your life.” 

The information toppled all of the carefully constructed scenarios in Riot's mind. He had resolved to hate her, and now he didn’t know what to think. He stood and carefully tied on the straps of the new sword belt that hung at his waist as if it had always been there. 

“Leaving, Nathaniel?” Moran asked. 

“I’ll go back with the others. If I hurry, I can still catch the ship.”

“I think you’ll want to stay a moment longer; I have a few final gifts for you.”

Moran produced a piece of parchment from his breast pocket; it was covered in thousands of intricate runes, delicately crafted, and they appeared to move across the page, sliding away as soon as they were looked at.

“This is leybound spellcraft, prepared for you by one of the preeminent arcanists on the continent.”