by A Van Wyck
The attacker slammed into the dirt with a clank of armor – Marco hit the ground and rolled upright in a fluid motion, turning. The rider lay in a heap on his back, gasping and clawing weakly at nothing. The helm was dented, its strap a stark smile on the exposed throat.
The one question he’d never raised: Could he kill?
Reversing his grip on the broken seirin, he stepped toward the downed rider.
Oh, yes. Yes, he could.
The raised the jagged stake. The fire blazed in him.
A gleaming blade punched through the downed rider’s chest. The inferior armor shrieked pitifully as the Temple steel pierced it. The clawing hands collapsed to the ground.
Marco jumped in surprise, the fire blown out like a candle, leaving only confusion. He’d forgotten the masha’na the rider had been fighting. He looked up into Christian’s eyes. The masha’na captain leaned on the pommel of his impaling sword, breathing heavily.
“Impressive likeness,” the young captain smiled at him, “you look like some pagan war spirit.”
What? Oh, yes.
He reached up to wipe the nameless girl’s blood from his face.
“Leave it,” the captain forestalled, straightening as he yanked his blade from the dead man’s chest. “I nearly soiled myself when you came flying out of the fire like that,” the man said, turning to examine the ground. “If our friend here–,” he kicked the corpse, “–had only been facing the right way, he’d have died of fright.”
He stared, uncomprehending in the wake of the fire, as the masha’na rooted around in the dirt. Scooping the downed rider’s sword from the ground, the masha’na pushed it into his free hand.
“Now stay close and keep awake,” the Temple warrior instructed, turning to move off into the gloom.
His body was in better command of the situation than he was and he let it toss the ruined seirin aside. His legs propelled him forward and then he was running in Christian’s wake, an unfamiliar sword grip in his hands. With the fire gone, terror returned, niggling at the back of his mind and it was all he could do to keep pace.
The masha’na captain led them unerringly through the demolished camp and they burst out of the dark and into the midst of a bloody struggle. Two attackers were moments from overpowering one of the chapter master’s guards, fighting alongside Yessin, the head farrier. The big smith’s claw hammer swept in powerful arcs but his opponent had the longer reach and was driving the unarmored man back with lighting jabs of his sword. The mercer guard’s right hand hung uselessly at his side, blood streaked his arm from a spear thrust he’d taken to the shoulder. Left-handed now, the guard clumsily batted away further attempts at ventilation.
Christian rushed the spearman.
Were he anything but masha’na, the sharp spearhead that snaked out would have impaled him. He slid around it to close with his opponent. The spearman, parrying with impressive speed, caught the scything cut on the spear’s haft.
Marco exploded from behind the masha’na, terror lending him speed. Letting his feet go out from under him, he skidded past the locked combatants. Pebbles dug through the weave of his robes and he felt skin disappear from his knee and ankle but he’d surprised the spearman. He couldn’t help the scream of terror that overflowed from his lungs as he brought his sword up to kiss his cheek, sliding past to open wide the man’s thigh. His timing was off and his form was atrocious but the hamstrung leg buckled. Christian’s sword flashed, catching his opponent twice in mid fall, sweeping across the chest before opening the man’s throat.
The remaining attacker whirled toward this new onslaught.
Marco’s wild skid carried him straight towards the man. Twisting in a way that had nothing to do with the careful training Master Crysopher had worked to impart to him, he catapulted himself to his knees, meaning to lunge at the attacker’s abdomen. But the man reacted swiftly and he found himself desperately parrying a wild overhand blow instead.
The impact was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced. There was no clack of wood on wood. The metal tongues rang sparks from each other and the dead man’s sword bucked in his hands. The unfamiliar straight blade smashed back towards him. He tried to stiffen his arms but the force behind the blow was too great. He felt the back edge of the blade bite into the bridge of his nose. Violet light bit at his eyes.
A claw hammer whistled past his ear, trailing stars. The attacker’s right elbow bowed inwards with a wet snap. The rictus of pain that ran across the man’s face turned to one of shock as Christian’s sword point slipped between ribs. Heart’s blood spurted as the Temple blade flashed back out. The rider crumpled, dead.
In the sudden silence, he knelt, staring at the still figure that had been moments from ending him. A firm hand grasped ahold of him under his chin.
“No prettier,” Christian said, tilting Marco’s head this way and that, examining the damage, “but a little wiser, yes?”
The hand applied some pressure and he was levered upright.
“This one is bleeding out,” Yassin informed them, taking the stricken mercer guard’s weight on his brawny shoulder. The guard’s head swung blearily about as he clutched at the smith’s support.
“Can you make it to the tree line?” Christian queried, assessing the both of them.
“I’ll bloody well try,” the smith growled, scowling fiercely.
“Get going then.”
The man lifted a bloody claw hammer in salute. He led the staggering guard away.
“Come on, we’re not done yet.”
A shove started his legs running and he and Christian were off again. His heart hammered wildly as he was dragged in the masha’na’s wake like a kite. The cleft in his face left him feeling numbed.
They rounded a corner and ran into chaos. A dozen men danced, hacking at each other. Christian dashed into the maelstrom. The masha’na laid about him with a skill and precision that made it seem enemies fell to the touch of his glance, not his blade. Marco copied him crudely, struggling to recall anything he’d learned and failing. He fended two blows by luck alone, the unaccustomed sword awkward in his hands and blind panic weighing down his limbs. The third blow nearly lifted him off his feet, the dead man’s sword leaping in his hands as it absorbed the impact. His legs churned as he struggled to stay grounded. His back slammed into a parked wagon, the force whipping his neck so he struck a resounding blow to the hard wood with the back of his head. He sagged, robbed of sight. The smell of blood filled his nose.
Blearily, the burning wagons before him resolved into a dark figure, advancing on him with sword raised. Through his blurred vision a laughing, scar seamed face confronted him from beneath the approaching helm’s shadow. An ember that had been smoldering in the pit of his stomach breathed to life. The fire that had left him rushed back in a blinding conflagration. Somewhere behind him something cracked and chains snapped taut. He was dragged forward as if those chains had been manacled to his wrists, the undeniable call of the fire like a siren song. He gave vent to it, screaming its heat before him. The unfamiliar sword was light as a feather in his hands and it clanged with beautiful discordance, fit accompaniment to the fire that painted his vision in hues of crimson. The awkwardness vanished from him, burned away. It was all he could do to hang on to the sword as it bounded from place to place, leaving sprays of red wherever it touched. He bulled into the press of bodies.
In his wake he left a swathe of cuts and furrows, gashes and punctures… But he could land not a single killing stroke. Like the smoke to his fire – and just as elusive – Christian clung to him, the masha’na’s blade always dipping or weaving beneath his, stealing his kills. One after another, the masha’na felled his opponents before he could finish them. The fire spat sullenly, searing him with its dissatisfaction. He yelled at the renewed pain. He needed to kill them! Kill them all!
He drove himself harder but couldn’t match the masha’na’s lightning moves. The fire’s frustration dripped from his lips in snarls and g
rowls as he raced against the appallingly competent captain.
Faster! The fire whipped him. Faster!
The red haze that all but obscured his vision crackled with his cry of fury as the fire rushed him toward another victim. His opponent deftly locked their weapons together and he freed one hand to punch past the deadlock. Another hand grabbed his in a firm grip and someone leaned in to yell loudly in his face.
“Marco!”
Startled, he blinked. It took him a moment to recognize Christian under all the blood and soot.
“Let go!” he yelled back, trying to pull free but the masha’na held him fast. “We’ve got to kill them! We’ve got to kill them all!”
The Temple guard shook him roughly by the hand.
“They’re dead, Marco. They’re all dead or fled. It’s over.”
Confused, retreating red around the edges of his vision, he cast around dazedly. The noise of the camp had changed. There were mournful wails but they held no panic. People staggered through the embers, shouting names of loved ones. Most were concentrating on getting the remaining fires snuffed out. He turned in a slow circle. There were no more sounds of fighting. There were no attackers in sight. He stood amidst the defenders, bathed in the light of a burning wagon. All eyes were on him. He looked down. Scattered about them were the bodies of the last of the dark riders.
The masha’na captain stepped up beside him. With gentle pressure, he pressed down on Marco’s sword arm, lowering the weapon.
“They’re all dead. It’s over. They’re gone,” the masha’na reassured him.
The fire abruptly drained out through the soles of his feet, taking his strength with it. His leaden arms gave up their struggle and surrendered the sword. It clattered to the ground. He followed it down, folding at the knees. He caught himself on his hands, staring down at the now familiar blade. It was covered in blood from point to pommel, the edge notched, strands of blood soaked hair and bits of anonymous flesh caught in the nicks. Traces of lighter sinew and marrow could be seen in the single ferrule and the copper reek of blood wafted from it.
Whatever spell had held him came to an end then. His stomach turned and he added its contents to the gruesome display. A comforting hand settled on his violently convulsing back. He huddled over the defiled weapon when the spasms had passed, coughing.
“Pay it no mind,” Christian’s voice soothed. “It’s normal. I chucked my guts after my first real scrap, too.” He patted Marco’s back. “You’ll start shaking soon. That’s normal too. And you’ll be lightheaded for a ways. Come on. Can you stand? You can sit down, out of the way, over there.”
It took two tries, but Marco finally made it to his feet. Christian led him a short distance to a cracked and overturned crate.
“Now you just stay here for a while. I’m going to go see who else needs help. It’ll be dawn in a few bells. We can take stock then.”
Marco said nothing. He was shivering violently and his teeth were chattering. Christian pulled a horse blanket from the wreckage and draped it over his shaking shoulders.
“Here.”
Christian took his hand and curled his unresisting fingers around the hilt of the sword he’d dropped. Some hasty effort had been made to wipe it but had been spectacularly unsuccessful. He felt bile bubble in his belly. His memory of using it was fragmented and getting hazier but it conjured up the voices of the men he’d… maimed. In his mind, they didn’t sound all that different from the screams of the camp’s people.
Giving him a last comforting pat, Christian made to move away.
“It not right,” he said, his voice rough and cracked with smoke and misuse, “is it?”
Christian hesitated, glancing back. The Temple warrior scanned the killing ground with a practiced eye.
“No, it’s not,” the warrior said. “But if you had to choose, would you rather be them,” the leonine head nodded at the cooling corpses, “or us?”
He shook his head in denial of this overly simple logic. It had to be more difficult than that to justify the taking of a human life. The love, the mercy and the generosity he’d been taught to revere all his life suddenly seemed unthinkably alien concepts compared to what he’d just experienced. Compared to… to what he’d just found within himself… He felt burned out. Like there was a scorched hole in his soul where all the goodness used to be.
“There has to be more than that,” he argued weakly, hampered by his chattering teeth.
“There is,” Christian confirmed over his shoulder, walking away, “but you won’t find it if you’re dead.”
Bear rolled the corpse over with the toe of his boot. The limbs had stiffened during the night and dew cascaded off the dead body as it clunked onto its back.
His gaze skittered away from the sight of the pasty pale flesh and staring eyes, memories of the night just past waking a bottomless well of guilt in him. Bear did not do the dead man the courtesy of closing his lids. With sure hands, the masha’na went to work with a short bladed knife, cutting leather thongs and straps. Pieces of blackened half-plate and under-padding arched over the big man’s shoulder as he systematically removed the failed attacker’s armor and tossed it aside.
“Fancy,” the big masha’na commented, briefly examining a blackened vambrace before it joined the growing heap behind him.
“This is the gravest of insults!” Ambassador Malconte raged hotly, his voice rising toward shrill incoherence. The small, round man was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Outrageous! An assault on the personage of the Imperial ambassador is tantamount to assault on the Emperor himself! Someone is going sink for this!” The man’s tone made it quite clear he didn’t particularly care who.
It definitely wouldn’t be the Imperial Guard. During the attack, Captain Iolus had drawn his men up into a protective cordon around the ambassador’s enormous carriage, reconciling his duty with his humanity by herding all stragglers inside monstrous conveyance and directing them beneath the spoked wheels when space ran out. The Imperial elite had fended all attacks with sword and shield, bogging down the attackers while a handful of their number shot arrows from atop the ambassador’s carriage. Anything even remotely hostile that had come into view had fared badly, though the ambassador’s voice had been heard from inside the carriage, shouting things like “What is happening?!” and “Stop that caterwauling!”
“I doubt insult was their intention, ambassador,” the chapter master observed. Adrio Bulgaron stood at parade rest, watching Bear’s ministrations with an impassive eye. “More likely their goal was our valuables. We must be quite a tantalizing sight. But to risk a caravan guarded by thirty five armed men?” The man shook his grey head. “You have to admire their gall. They probably thought to catch us all asleep in our beds.”
So said the man who’d led his men to battle dressed in his nightgown. The chapter master had apparently been quite a sight, swinging his two-handed sword and trailing his bobbled night cap like a war banner.
“Although,” the man mused, absently combing his beard with callused fingers, “they would have done better to hold off until just before first light. Even the best of sentries are at their least alert then.”
He was the only one to see Father Justin’s brow crease thoughtfully at this.
“Brigands?” Scorn dripped from the ambassador voice. “All mounted? All armored and orchestrated? Pah! I think not!”
“Horses aren’t as rare here,” the chapter master argued, scanning the area as if seeking proof of its equine abundance. “And this would be a lush hunting ground for bandits. War or no, unsanctioned trade does occur across the border,” the merchant lord assured them. No doubt he got reports on it, if not profits from it. “Authority is a long way off out here. This lone artery probably supported some robber baron’s small fiefdom of thieves. If we’ve any luck, he‘s one of these.” The graying mercer waved at the corpse, one of only a handful they’d found since first light. It looked as if the attackers had made some attempt at takin
g their dead with them when they’d fled.
The sun had risen eventually, illuminating the charred ruin of the camp. Three wagons were completely lost and still smoking. Another two were even now being taken apart to provide parts for ones that could be salvaged. All the tents that had caught fire had been lost, along with everything in them. The majority of the horses had bolted, fleeing their corral. Most had already been recovered and there were people out, nervously scouring the forest for the rest.
The death toll wasn’t as high as had been feared. Though he didn’t remember hearing it, sentries had given the alarm moments before the attack. The bandits had been unprepared for the caravan’s swift reaction and their determined defense. And, of course, they had been completely unprepared to battle masha’na.
The caravan’s casualties totaled seven. Including Edgin – the baker – and his seamstress wife, Ievi, who’d been found huddled over his body, trampled to death.
The chapter master’s command tent had been converted into an infirmary. Marco and the keeper had just come from there. The priest would be the first to tell you he was no healer but there was an Imperial guardsman no longer bleeding out from a leg wound and a merchant’s guard without a hole in his shoulder who could beg to differ. There was nothing the priest’s streaming could do for the assistant farrier who’d lost all the fingers of his left hand, except to drive out any infection. The rest were burns, bruises and the makings of ugly scars that didn’t require any magical intervention. The caravan’s mender was making sure those victims rested comfortably.
He kept a watchful eye on the priest. Streaming was draining work and Justin had dark circles under his eyes, though he seemed no less alert than usual. The story was already circulating. He’d heard it while helping in the infirmary.
“You should have seen it,” one of the injured ostlers had been telling the mender, wincing as the man wrapped his cracked ribs. “Rider come out of nowhere, barreling straight for our father priest,” the man related animatedly. “I thought the preacher was a goner! But he just turns and looks at them and suddenly the horse goes wild! Like it’s dancing on snakes! I swear that rider broke every bone in his body pitching off that animal. And the horse is probably still running…”