by Alex Faure
Darius could only stare. The archer gazing down at him, head canted as if in abstracted thought, was perhaps in his early twenties, with a slim build. He was dressed as the others were, in a long, woven tunic of greyish blue, close-fitting trousers, and boots that extended to his knees. Yet he was as different from the others, and from any man Darius had seen, as the moon is from the sun. His tousled hair was such a luminous shade of blonde that it was almost white, several strands tumbling onto his forehead, slightly damp. He had the appearance of being bleached of colour, as if he had surfaced from the mist that swirled about them like some fell god of the river. His eyes were a silvery grey that gleamed like moonlight on water.
And he was beautiful. Painfully, mercilessly beautiful. Darius could not get past it, could not stop gazing into his face, despite knowing that he was seconds away from dying at the young man’s hand. For his beauty was such an unearthly thing; it froze Darius’s tongue and brought an ache to his chest. For a moment, he doubted that the young man was real. Surely any second, he would give a smile, and the mist would swallow him up, returning him to whatever celestial realm he had descended from.
But none of this occurred, and the young man continued to gaze at Darius, his lips slightly parted. He had not lowered his bow. His silver eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were narrowed. Darius could not decipher the emotions that flitted across his face—all he knew was that they were gazing at each other, and that, for some unfathomable reason, he was still alive. He felt something expand within him, a feeling he couldn’t interpret. Surely it was the loss of blood muddling his thoughts. The arrow was still in his thigh.
One of the Romans charged at the archer, sword raised. The young man glanced up calmly, as if at a bird that had drifted into his field of view, and buried his arrow in the soldier’s throat.
Darius felt frozen. The Celt had moved so quickly that Darius’s eyes couldn’t follow it. One second, the arrow had been pointed at him; the next, it had killed one of his men.
The silver-eyed Celt tossed his bow aside—he was out of arrows, it seemed—and drew a dagger to meet the next Roman soldier. The dagger, Darius saw, had the carved bone hilt and wicked point that marked the man as a Robogdi assassin—a class revered by the barbarians. Unlike their brute warriors, assassins seemed to occupy an almost spiritual place in the Robogdi villages. They were rarely sent into battle, usually chosen instead for the sort of silent, catlike ambush that had earned the Robogdi such a fearsome reputation among Agricola’s legions.
Even so, Darius expected the assassin to go down—the Celts were no match for Roman discipline in the arena of hand-to-hand combat. Instead, the young man dodged the soldier’s sword. Mist swirled, and somehow the assassin was behind the soldier, and his dagger was slashing across his throat.
Darius was shivering. Again, the young man had moved with preternatural speed. Marcus, having killed his target, strode to meet the silver-eyed assassin. Darius shouted a warning, which Marcus—infuriating, self-involved Marcus—ignored. Then he and the assassin were engaged in battle.
The assassin let out a sound that was almost a laugh as another impossibly quick thrust was met by Marcus’s sword. He darted back, eyes shining with a wild sort of amusement. There was blood on his face that had sprayed from the last man he’d killed, which somehow only added to his fey beauty, the powerful impression he conveyed of some darker aspect of nature given breath and body. They circled each other, Marcus sizing him up. He and Darius were the only Romans left alive. Their men were dead. So were the Celts, Darius realized. Marcus had killed all but one.
“Finally, an elf who can fight,” Marcus drawled after another series of parries ended in a stalemate. He still seemed calm, despite the assassin’s eerie grace. “But sword against dagger does not make for a fair match.” He gestured with his chin to one of the Roman swords lying on the beach. “If you wish.”
The assassin’s eyes darted to the sword. Amazement flitted across his face as he seemed to comprehend what Marcus was offering.
“Marcus,” Darius breathed. Loss of blood made his vision swim. “What are you doing, you—”
“It’s what you would do, Commander,” Marcus said, giving Darius an insouciant look. The idiot still hadn’t comprehended the danger he was in, and was even smiling, as at a good joke. “Even barbarians deserve honourable treatment, don’t they?”
Meanwhile, the assassin had reached the sword, passing in front of Marcus with his side exposed. Marcus made no move whatsoever to take advantage of the opportunity, even flashed Darius another infuriating smile. The young man hefted the sword—it was too large for his slender build; he would have to hold it two-handed to be comfortable. He gazed at it as at some curio he had never seen before. His grip was all wrong.
Marcus gave him a moment to sort himself out, and then he attacked with lightning speed. But the assassin was no longer where he had been a second ago—he had side-stepped Marcus in a swirl of mist, appearing behind him and forcing Marcus to whirl, off-balance. Marcus drove his sword toward the assassin, who parried with a bizarre series of two-handed moves that seemed entirely improvised, yet somehow managed to be effective. Then, in a neat gesture that mirrored Marcus’s own negligent ease, he knocked Marcus’s sword from his hand.
“No,” Darius cried.
Marcus stared at the assassin, his mouth hanging open. He seemed entirely unable to process what had happened. The assassin cocked his head, considering him. Then he shifted his grip on the sword, ramming the hilt against Marcus’s head. The man went down, and lay unmoving on the riverbank.
The assassin tossed the sword aside with a slight grimace, rolling his shoulder as if the heft of the weapon had pained him. He retrieved his dagger and strode to Darius’s side.
Darius tried to move backwards, to reach the sword that lay only a few paces away, but his vision briefly blackened, and the assassin was there before he knew it. The young man gripped the fabric of his tunic and dragged him out of the water, pinning him to a rock.
They were close to the falls, almost pressing against them. Darius felt the spray against the side of his face, heard the pounding of the water. The assassin was so close, the warmth and breath and weight of him, his strange eyes searching Darius’s face. His unearthly beauty was even more arresting at that range—Darius was struck by a strange urge to reach out and touch that thick, flaxen hair. There were worse ways to die, part of him noted distantly. There was a leaf tangled among the blonde waves, and a puff of clover.
The assassin said something, his voice urgent, the words falling upon Darius’s ears like raindrops. The Hibernian tongue was strange, even stranger than the Britannian, full of lilting vowels and raspy consonants, sharp as burrs. There was a question in his words, in his eyes. Proximity clarified his beauty as it also revealed him to be flesh and blood, not some naiad of the falls. Bluish shadows lay beneath his eyes, and beside his mouth was a small blemish. It only drew attention to the elegant bow of his lips, held in tension. Darius gazed back at him, unable to move.
Voices from above. The assassin shoved Darius to his knees. He shouted something, and the voices replied.
More Celts were there, peering down from the top of the waterfall, addressing the young man in querying tones. They could not see Darius, who was hidden from view at that angle, but they could see their silver-eyed countryman.
The young man tilted his head back and gave a reply. He held his dagger casually in his hand, pointed unambiguously at Darius’s throat. It was unnecessary. Darius had no desire to speak.
After a few more exchanges, the Celts above them seemed to depart. The young man released Darius and took a step back. He regarded him as if waiting for something.
“I—” Darius drew himself to his feet. His vision darkened. How much blood had he lost? The arrow was still in his leg, but he couldn’t feel it.
The assassin continued to gaze at him, his eyes wandering up and down Darius’s body, his expression tense, indecipherable. Still he m
ade no move to skewer him with the dagger with which he had so easily slain Darius’s men.
Darius took a painful step forward, thinking that, for some unfathomable reason, the assassin was letting him go—some barbarian code of honour? He took another step, and then the darkness overwhelmed him, and he knew no more.
Chapter Four
Darius surfaced.
He felt hot, his body bathed in sweat. Despite this, he was shaking. He tried to open his eyes, but his vision swam; his surroundings receded, then grew close again, the distances altering too quickly. He groaned, nauseated.
He realized, in some distant part of his mind, that he was feverish. His wound was infected—or perhaps the arrow had been poisoned. He glanced down at it, intending to pull it out.
Instead he saw, through the haze of his vision, a leg swathed in pale bandages. The arrow was gone. Someone drew the blanket back over his body.
“Father,” he murmured. “Father.”
It could only be his father—no one else had ever cared for him when he fell ill. But why did the old farmhouse smell so strangely? Forest and sweat and some sickly herb, something that reminded him—
Britannia. He was in Britannia, serving under Governor Agricola. The raven-faced man had always treated Darius with respect, and something verging on affection—or as close to it as a general of his stature could fairly show a soldier.
“Alert the governor of my condition,” he said. “He must know that I am not fit for duty. He will be looking for me.”
A hand touched his face. For a moment, Darius had the impression of a pale figure leaning over him, of silver eyes glinting in the darkness like a predator’s. He thought, bizarrely, of the owl—when had he seen the owl? Yesterday? Last week? How long had he been in this dark place? The silver eyes darkened to brown, ethereal beauty dimming to a rough, unshaven mien.
Marcus. Marcus was here, it was his light touch on his lips. Darius blinked, and the apparition vanished entirely.
His mouth was forced open then, and some sort of warm liquid poured down his throat. He coughed, half-choking. The substance was vile—was this doctor trying to kill him? For it must be a doctor; his father must have sent for someone. That could only mean one thing—Darius’s illness was serious.
“Water,” he said.
Instead of water, more of the vile liquid was tipped into his mouth. Darius swallowed, only because the alternative was choking. This doctor was utterly incompetent. Could he not understand Latin?
“That’s enough,” he said, fumbling with the blanket, preparing to stand. He would alert the governor to his condition himself, and get him to send this fool away. But the man spoke, his voice slicing through the darkness, and Darius paused. The words were gibberish, but the command behind them was unmistakeable. And something about the voice was familiar. It calmed some small, fearful thing inside him.
A hand cupped his head, surprisingly gentle. A cup was lifted to Darius’s mouth, and he felt cool water—thank the gods—against his lips. He drank deeply, and the cup was withdrawn. Darius sank back against his bedding, his entire body trembling. Someone drew the blankets over his chest.
“Father,” he murmured again.
At some point—perhaps seconds later, or perhaps hours—he sensed that the visitor had gone, and he was alone. And he recalled that his father was dead.
*
Darius would estimate, after his fever broke, that it had consumed him for four days. During that time, his world was reduced to a dark, spinning chasm, across which shapes and sounds occasionally drifted, before being pulled down into the void.
Finally, he awoke as himself again. He was burrowed in a nest of blankets in a low cave, high enough to sit up but not stand. A river played somewhere outside, and frogs croaked. It was dark—night. Someone had been there recently—he could still feel the warmth of a hand on his face.
Darius’s exhausted mind could get no further than that. Finally free of the fever, he closed his eyes and slept the first deep sleep he had known in days.
*
He woke in the morning.
At least, he thought it was morning, judging by the texture of the light. It spilled into the little cave, not quite reaching his feet.
Darius blinked. He touched his face. Had he imagined the hand he had felt there? He could sense another presence, bright and flickering, recently departed.
“Hello?”
No response, save for the wind in the trees, and the ever-present murmur of the river. He could remember that clearly enough, weaving in and out of his fever dreams.
He pushed himself up on one shaking hand.
Nearby, within arm’s reach, was a copper jug. Darius sniffed the contents—water. Next to the jug was a cup—both had the rough-hewn appearance of Celtic vessels. Darius poured, his arm shaking as he lifted the jug, though it was far from heavy. He downed the water, then poured a second cup, downing that too.
He sagged back into his blankets. Even the simple action of drinking had wearied him, and he closed his eyes briefly. Beside the water was a pile of folded clothing. Darius squinted.
His uniform. But if—
He gazed down at himself, and started. He was clothed in the woven grey tunic of his enemy—the Robogdi. It stopped halfway down his thighs. Beneath it, he was naked and barefoot.
His ankle throbbed. He pushed the blankets back to examine it, and was surprised to find it splinted and bound, the horrific angle corrected. He was grateful not to remember that. It was badly swollen and bruised, but that was to be expected. His leg troubled him barely at all. The arrow wound was covered in a clean bandage.
He cast about the cave. It was perhaps ten feet across, and only slightly broader in length. It didn’t take him long to realize that his boots were not there.
He tried to remember the last few days. He couldn’t. He clung to the fact that someone had brought him here, and that someone must be coming back. Had it been Marcus? Darius remembered seeing him, but he had been feverish, and Marcus was, in all likelihood, dead. Darius thought of the scene on the beach, his men falling before the Robogdi onslaught. He shut his eyes, wishing he could block out the memories.
A thud from outside the cave. Darius’s eyes flew open. The light had changed—it was afternoon now. He had fallen asleep again.
Darius fumbled to draw himself up, and he let out a hiss of pain. His ankle throbbed at the sudden movement. He lay sprawled, half on one elbow, blankets askew, as the visitor slipped inside the cave.
Pale hair and silver eyes. The grace of a stalking cat in the body of a young man. It was the Robogdi assassin.
The Celt noted Darius’s wakefulness with a slight frown and a searching gaze. He was unarmed, but that meant nothing to one who killed as easily as he drew breath.
Darius fumbled for something—anything. But there was no weapon at hand, not even a stray bit of rubble. The assassin said something in a mild tone. He reached over Darius as if he were a feature of the cave floor and lifted the jug of water. Then he slipped back outside, moving without any particular urgency.
Darius half crawled, half dragged himself to the edge of the cave, his ankle protesting every inch. He blinked in the sunlight—clouds formed a patchwork over the blue, and the light dimmed and brightened. A rock ledge lay before him, stepping down to the riverbank. Trees swayed in the breeze, alive with foreign birds.
Darius’s stomach clenched. He didn’t recognize this place. They could have been any distance from where Darius had camped with his men, either upstream or down. The assassin crouched over the river, refilling the jug.
“Why have you helped me?” Darius said. The assassin couldn’t understand, yet he felt that, in some way, he had to register his perplexity. “Why did you bring me here?”
The assassin paid him no attention. With his dishevelled hair, strange eyes, and unconscious grace, he looked like a wild animal, one that might or might not be in a pleasant mood. He returned the full jug to the cave, then set about bu
ilding a fire with the sticks and logs he had deposited on the rock.
Darius had a few words of Britannian, and knew there was some overlap between the tongues. Brokenly, he repeated his questions in that language.
The assassin gave him a sharp look, a combination of surprise and confusion, as if a fish had spoken. He paused in the act of reaching for a branch, long fingers dangling. Darius repeated himself, slowly. The assassin replied, also slowly.
Darius’s brow furrowed. It was a meaningless string of gibberish, to his ears—a patter of sounds alternatingly sinuous and sharp. He tried again, cobbling together enough words to ask after the fort. The Celt stared at him blankly.
Darius felt his frustration peak. He was clearly a hostage of some sort. Were the Robogdi hoping to ransom him? There could be no other reason why he had been treated, kept alive—even washed and clothed.
Yet it was equally clear that there was nothing, in that moment, he could do about his situation. He leaned back against the rock, his head pounding, his wounded ankle an agony.
The assassin had resumed ignoring him, withdrawing a knife from some hidden fold in his cloak and applying it to one of the dead rabbits next to the fire. The cloak was of a dark, beaten leather that fit close to his body, emphasizing his sharp, dangerous lines, and was of a higher quality, it seemed, than most Celtic garments. Now that Darius could examine him closely, he could see that all the clothes he wore, from the slim boots to the thigh-length tunic, were of a higher quality, finely stitched and fitted to his proportions. Assassins were worshipped among the Robogdi; clearly their occupations were also materially profitable.
The assassin worked in silence, a pale wave falling onto his forehead as he bent over the carcass. He tossed the fur and entrails into the river, all but the heart, which, after a slight pause, he held out to Darius.