by Alex Janaway
And then he left, hurrying purposefully along the concourse. He realised his life as he knew it here was at an end, he would not be treading these paths again. Did he feel remorse, a sense of loss? All too damned late now. His luck held. He passed a few elves on his journey, but with his head down, his arms in the wide-brimmed sleeves, as if he had an urgent errand to perform, no one stopped him to enquire about his business. It was, after all, Parliament. Where else could one feel so safe? He smiled, someone would be in for a surprise later. He reached the porticoed entrance way, with its many portals leading to the outside. The steps down were well lit and he could spy the top of a spear leaning out from one such portal. Onwards. He continued under one archway, passed a guard to his left and right and was halfway down the steps before he took another breath. And then he was on the boulevard and heading away from Parliament, the temples and the Palace. Good fucking riddance. They had their chance to kill him, and they had screwed up. So, what next? His feeling of accomplishment passed as swiftly as it had arrived. Home.
Fillion returned to the town house as quickly as he could. The wound in his side was hurting like a bastard and the crude bandage tied around his waist was quickly wet to the touch. The wound would need sealing or stitch work. Likely his arm too. He didn’t want to think about his head. Either way he was never going to look so handsome again. Like it mattered. This was the end game. He had one last thing to do. Then the outcome, the future, was no longer his to influence. He felt a warm trickle along his forehead and wiped away the blood before it fell into his eye. If this had been daytime …
He arrived at the archway entrance, the gate was open, as it always was, and lights were burning in a number of windows. It was after supper. That meant the family would be spread throughout the house. He looked to the stables. Perhaps he should?
No. Fillion continued on and reached the front door and went to open it but changed his mind. Instead he went to the side door which led through the kitchens. He entered and was met by the smell of cooked meats. Even in his dire state, he felt his stomach rumble. A sure a sign as ever that he wasn’t dead yet. The kitchen was light and a fire burned in the grate. To one side he saw the cook cutting fruit. He waved in his general direction, bid him good evening and hurried forward before he could reply.
Thankfully, the dining room was empty. He took a moment to catch his breath. Blinking rapidly, he withdrew the knife. How do I do this? There were two choices. One was bloodier than the other. But what did he want to achieve? Nadena or Brynne. What did he want? Did he love her? Truly? Or was it their daughter? Could he have one without the other? He clutched his head, it hurt just to think. He tucked the dagger back into his belt and pushed himself away from the wall, fighting a wave of nausea and carried on through the house, heading for the drawing room. The door was slightly ajar, a light within, but there were no voices. He checked left and right, trying to sound out if anyone else was nearby. He raised a fist and knocked gently on the door.
‘Yes?’ the muffled answer was Patiir’s.
Fillion pushed the door, stepped swiftly through and closed it behind him. He turned and found the elf sitting in one of the two chairs by the gently burning fire. He nursed a glass in his hands.
‘Have you … oh,’ he said when he realised who was wearing the guard’s cloak. To give him his due, Patiir did not miss a beat. ‘You are not supposed to be here, Sabin.’
Fillion took a step forward and pulled the hood away from his head.
‘And it looks like you know why,’ finished the elf.
‘You should have sent more men,’ said Fillion.
‘Evidently,’ agreed Patiir. ‘Though it looks to me that you are almost finished.’
Fillion took another step.
Patiir raised a hand. ‘What do you hope to achieve by coming here?’
Fillion stopped and thought about it. He had been running on instinct up to this point but now he experienced a moment of clarity – it was a sound question and one he realised he had the answer to.
‘I came to this city with no hope and only one purpose. I wanted to kill your King. I could think of no other act by which I could take my vengeance. But then I met you, and your daughter showed me kindness, and I found myself in another world.’
‘Why would you wish to kill our King?’ asked Patiir, looking genuinely puzzled.
‘I said your King. Not mine. You killed mine.’
Patiir shook his head, still looking confused.
‘You killed him back in Tissan and most of his family as well. But not all. I saw to that,’ said Fillion feeling a flush of satisfaction. ‘An heir lives.’
Patiir made an O with his mouth and his eyebrows sunk low as he frowned.
‘You cannot be. A human? No. You are an elf.’
‘Half-elf.’
Patiir waved a hand. ‘Those aberrations are a rarity. Those that breed with humans are outcasts. You cannot expect me to believe you are a human. I do not forgive you for your actions, Sabin, but you are not a human. You are sick. The horrors of war and your injuries have left you damaged, like so many others. You are ill and you need to be put away for your own good.’
Fillion took another step forward. ‘Hear me now, elf. My name is Captain Sabin Fillion of the Imperial Scouts. My father was Celtebarian. My mother was an elf. She left me to return home when I was a child so I turned my back on her kind and devoted myself to serving my Emperor. My last mission was to see the last living heir to the Empire safely to Aberpool. Once there he would join a fleet, waiting to sail to the west. I completed that mission.’ One more step and he was face to face with Patiir. ‘Look at me closely. Am I lying? You said I was no good at subterfuge. Tell me, where was I found? Lying in Aberpool surrounded by Imperial troops. My troops.’ Fillion spat blood on to the floor and smiled. ‘Tell me. Am I lying?’
Patiir snorted. ‘And what? You gave up on killing the King and decided to foment conflict between dwarves and elves? You are an arrogant fool if you believe that will work.’
‘It will work, Patiir, the groundwork is already laid. And when the guards come they will find you slain, and lying next to you will be a dwarf-forged blade,’ Fillion drew the dagger and plunged it into Patiir’s stomach. The elf let out a little cry and dropped his glass. It fell on to the thick rug, but did not smash. The red wine stained the white weave, as did the droplets of blood. His hands covered Fillion’s trying to force them back, but Fillion leaned forward, pressed hard, and sawed the blade to the left. Patiir’s mouth had formed another O and he fell back into his chair, the dagger sliding out of the wound.
There were tears falling from Patiir’s eyes as he looked down at the red mess staining his robes, and then up at Fillion.
‘Sabin? What have you done?’
Fillion leaned down and pressed the blade against Patiir’s chest, against his heart.
‘I have killed you, Patiir, and now I will kill your family. And the blame lies at your door. You did this when you sought the slaughter of my race.’
Patiir, shook his head. The denial in his eyes was clear.
‘No, not them, not my daughter, not your child–’
‘Yes.’ Fillion pushed the blade hard and deep into Patiir’s chest. He gave a sigh, his arms dropped and his head fell backwards. Fillion let go of the blade’s grip and stepped back. He studied Patiir; a blood-soaked ragdoll. Once the most powerful elf outside of the court, the architect of millions of deaths, the ending of two, maybe more races. And now just … gone.
Fillion spat on him – another thick gobbet of blood and mucus. Vengeance had, in a way, been served. Yet it was a cold comfort to him. This was better. It truly was. But he had not expected to live and the mission had changed. To make this convincing, to make this the enterprise effective, it had to be done right. And now he had to live. He reached down and pulled the blade out. He didn’t have to enjoy what he did, nor would he. I do this for all who are lost.
Over the coming minutes, Fillion stalked the hou
se. He was a tide of death. Old Rabi who had shown him nothing but kindness, taken from behind, his neck snapped. The cook bent over his mixing bowl, the blood from his open neck spilling over the fruit. Hedra asleep in his bed, it was over quickly without pain for him. Alica was in the bath house, she always liked to bathe late in the evening. Her screams were muffled by the water as he pushed her under even as he stabbed her in the back, red spreading across the pool. Nadena, when he stepped into their bedroom, was also fast asleep. And curled in her arms was Brynne. Fillion stood and watched them breathe; his wife, her features calm and at rest. His daughter, that face, that look of permanent confusion, a tiny hand pressed against her tiny nose. He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of their life. And he reflected on all that he had done. In the house behind him there was a slaughter and nothing he could do would change that now. This pretend life, it was over. He had ended it. It was always going to end, one day. That die was cast a long time ago. He took a step forward. But he looked again at his sleeping daughter and stopped. No. There was another way.
He hurried back through the house and out the front door to the stables. Inside he saddled both Amice and Nadena’s horse, Naleth, strapped in a hunting bow and arrows and placed saddlebags on her mare. Grabbing a second set and placing them his shoulders, he led both horses out to the courtyard. Precious minutes spent when every moment he expected to hear the sound of armoured troops running down the street. He ran back into the house, and then deliberately slowed his pace, walking softly back into the kitchens where he filled the saddle bags with bread, cheeses and meats, adding two waterskins to the load. Finally he pulled a long knife from the chopping board and slipped it into his belt. Then he was back through the house and into the drawing room, where he placed the dwarf dagger beside Patiir’s body. As he straightened up one of the waterskins bumped into his side.
‘Fuck!’
The pain reminded him what bad shape he was in. He just had to hold it together a while longer. He returned to the bedroom carrying a lamp he taken from the kitchen. Nothing had changed within. His wife and child were still unaware of the horrors he had committed. He stepped quietly to the side of the bed, dropped the saddlebags on the floor, and sitting down on the edge, gently touched Nadena on the shoulder. She let out a little moan and made a pained face.
‘Nadena.’
‘Uh.’
‘Nadena, please. Wake up.’
‘Uh?’ She cracked open an eyelid. ‘Sabin.’ Then she closed her eye again.
‘Nadena. Wake up.’
‘What is it?’ she said, the irritation clear.
‘Look at me.’
She opened her eyes and blinked in the light. It took her a few seconds.
‘Sabin.’ She stopped. Her eyes grew wider and she shifted upright. ‘Sabin! What has happened to you?’ she said, reaching up to his face. ‘Is that blood?’
‘Nadena,’ Fillion touched her cheek. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes, but what–’
‘Nadena. Everyone is dead.’
Nadena looked at him blankly. ‘Sabin. Why is there blood all over you?’
Little Brynne shifted in Nadena’s arms and woke up. She gurgled a little and coughed.
‘Nadena. Our family are dead.’
She picked up Brynne in her arms and held her protectively.
‘Sabin. You are scaring me.’
‘I am hurt. I have been stabbed. I got away but I could not save them.’
‘Who?’ she whispered, gently rocking.
‘You father. Your brother. Your sister. They are all gone.’
‘No.’ Nadena shook her head and closed her eyes. ‘No.’
‘Nadena. Look at me. We have to go. More of them will be coming.’
She opened her eyes.
‘More? Who?’
‘Dwarves.’
‘This is nonsense,’ she said firmly. ‘You have taken a fall. You must have been drinking with your friends again.’
‘It’s true. And we have to go. Now.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Fillion started to lose his patience. There was no time for this.
‘Dammit, Nadena. I am not drunk. Go look for yourself. Look at what they have done.’
She stared at him. It was like she was looking at a stranger.
‘Very well.’
She laid Brynne on the bed beside her and climbed out.
‘Show me,’ she commanded. She stood stiffly, brushing down her nightdress.
Fillion pushed himself off the bed and led her downstairs. He took her to the drawing room.
‘Inside.’ He said reaching out to touch her arm. ‘We have to get ready to go.’
She looked at him with that oddly detached expression and brushed his hand away. She opened the door and stepped inside. A moment later he heard a gasp and then a gentle, plaintive whine. Fillion turned and walked back upstairs. He was starting to find it difficult to move. His body was finally starting to give into the shock.
He went to Nadena’s wardrobe and pulled out some of her riding clothing and threw it on to the bed. Next to he went to the drawer and gathered up things for Brynne; blankets for her body and squares of cloth for her toilet. He shoved these into the saddlebags. He heard someone enter the room behind him.
‘You are bleeding,’ Nadena said quietly.
‘Uh?’ Fillion looked down. Some spots of blood were gathered by his feet. ‘There’s no time to deal with it,’ he said.
‘Yes, there is,’ she replied moving to the same drawer he had been in. She pulled out more of Brynne’s cloth. ‘Move those to the side,’ she said, pointing at the waterskins. Fillion did as he was bidden. He watched as she made a square of the material and placed it against the hold in his side. Tears were rolling freely down her cheeks.
‘Hold it in place,’ she said pressing the cloth tightly to the wound. He clenched his teeth against the pain and moved his hand to take hold of the pad. She collected another piece and refolded it into a long strip which she placed over the pad and then tied off around his waist. All this she did with the same practiced ease she had displayed caring for the wounded soldiers returning from Tissan. The way she had nursed him, all those months ago.
‘Did you see?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t save them,’ he said.
‘And the others?’
‘I checked. They are gone.’
Another nod.
‘We have to get away from here. A dwarf assassin took me as I walked home. I must have scared off whoever was in here.’
‘Is help coming?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I hurried home. It’s all I could think about. I had to get back to you. I was … too late.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she pulled off her nightgown and quickly dressed. She was all business now, even as the tears still flowed.
‘I don’t know. I was getting the horses ready. I don’t know where’s safe.’
‘Go downstairs. I’ll bring Brynne,’ she said.
Fillion nodded. Picked up the saddle bags and left the room. He found the horses waiting patiently in the courtyard and he flung the saddlebags over Amice. He went back into the stables, finding a flint and tinder, some other useful items. As he stowed them away on Amice, Nadena appeared, carrying Brynne.
She hurried over and handed him the baby before climbing aboard. She held her hands out and he held Brynne up for Nadena to take her.
‘We should go to the King,’ she said.
‘No,’ replied Fillion. ‘We must get out of the city. We are being hunted. Nowhere is safe.’
Nadena nodded vacantly. It was safe to assume she was still in a state of shock. It made it easier for him to direct her. He waited until she was settled and climbed on to Amice.
‘Stay close,’ he ordered.
He led them out under the archway, on to the lane and away from the townhouse. He wanted to put Amice into a brisk trot but the s
ound of her footfalls seemed inordinately loud. So, against his better judgement, he walked them slowly through the sleeping city, past rows of neat and orderly dwellings, leafy squares and gardens and under the many mage lights burning on street corners. They saw no one until they approached the gates marking the western boundary. It was well lit and Fillion counted three guards on duty. He knew there would be another half dozen in the guardroom set in the top of the gate, the standard number that he had taken the time to find out about a long time ago, when he was first learning all he could about the city and its security. There was no sense of alert, no air of tension as they closed with the gate. He nodded to the single guard, on the city side.
‘An early start,’ stated the guard in a friendly tone. His spear was resting lightly on his shoulder and underneath his helmet, he was smiling.
‘Don’t I know it,’ replied Fillion. ‘We have just heard that my wife’s mother is unwell. We are heading west and I wanted us to get as many miles under our belts as we could. With luck we’ll reach my wife’s mother’s home by dusk today.’ He flicked his head towards Nadena. ‘She does worry about her.’
‘Is the little one warm enough?’ asked the guard, looking at Nadena as she rode past him, her head bowed low.
‘Oh, she is a tough one,’ replied Fillion quickly. He was past the guard and had to turn to look back. His side was howling.
The guard looked at him and raised his free hand.
‘Safe journey.’
Fillion returned the gesture and as he passed beyond the gate, he nodded at the guard to his right. A few moments later and Nadena was through as well.
Fillion breathed deeply. If she was going to have done something to raise the alarm, then would have been the time. Yet she continued to follow his lead. He took his hand off the knife at his belt. He hadn’t even noticed he had reached for it. He waited for her to draw level.
‘Nadena. Are you well?’
Silence.
‘Wife?’
She looked up.