The Fighters: Master of Chains

by Jess Lebow

  Liam nodded again. "That's what happened."

  "And what was your answer?"

  Liam stood up straight, puffing out his chest. "I told him I'd rather die than do his dirty work."

  This brought a few hoots from the crowd, and a "That a boy!"

  Montauk glared at the Awl, and they fell silent again. "And after you told him this, he just let you go, no pun­ishment, no exchange of information, no nothing?" He spun a slow circle, making a big deal out of making eye contact with everyone present. When he had completed his turn, he faced Liam again. "Well, I don't know about your other brothers and sisters of the Awl, but I for one do not believe you."

  Liam looked around at the men and women he had thought were his friends. They stared at him with accusation in their eyes. Even Kharl, who would have been lying dead next to Ryder if it hadn't been for Liam, seemed to condemn him.

  There was a loud noise behind Liam, and a whole lot of rustling.

  Then someone shouted, "It's Purdun's men. Run!"

  There were a few choice swear words, then commotion broke out. Dowmore Glen became a frenzy of activity. The veterans in the group organized quickly, forming a line, trying to give the others time to flee. They grabbed the younger ones, forcing them behind the line. The Council members and those on the fringes of the circle ran for cover.

  As Liam spun around, he caught one last glimpse of the strange robed group on the fringe of the Glen. Only two of them remained. The hoodless man and the red-cloaked person looked on with the same stoic gaze they had worn while watching Liam fight accusations of treason. Then they turned and walked calmly from the clearing. As they left, four gray wolves padded out from behind the trees, following them deeper into the forest.

  Liam wondered about them for a quick moment, then the hum of bowstrings brought him back to the soldiers raiding the clearing. He turned around to see a host of well-armed elite guardsmen charging through the woods toward the druid's circle.

  "Damn," he said under his breath, and he took off run­ning. He made for the defensive line, following the rest of the Awl as they ran from the clearing.

  The crossbowmen were only a few large strides away. They had crouched behind the low stone wall for cover, and Liam wanted to get behind them. Reaching the wall, he lifted his foot to leap over, but Montauk moved in front of him. The man who had usurped Ryder's place as head of the Crimson Awl gave Liam a shove. Off balance from preparing to jump over the stones, Liam couldn't catch himself in time and fell backward. With his hands cinched behind him, he tumbled, landing on his tailbone with all his weight. It hurt, and he gritted his teeth. His eyes watered from the pain, and he looked up at a blurry image of Montauk leering down at him.

  "This is your fault." He pulled a dagger from his belt, turned the point toward Liam, and lifted it over his shoulder. "You're a traitor to the Awl and a disgrace to the memory of your own brother."

  Liam's heart raced. He scrambled sideways, bending his knees and lifting his weight with his bound hands as he slid one foot under his rump. But as he shifted his weight the pine needles moved, and he slipped, falling again on his tailbone.

  "Good-bye and good riddance," said Montauk.

  "Incoming," shouted one of the Awl.

  A volley of arrows came raining down near the crossbowmen. Most of them shattered harmlessly against the stone wall, but a few hit home.

  Montauk let out a cry and stumbled backward, hold­ing his right arm. "Damn."

  One of Purdun's men had grazed Montauk with his shot. Two of the crossbowmen stood up to help him, pull­ing the usurper back and away from the stone wall. Most of the other Awl had already fled the clearing, leaving only the veterans and Montauk.

  "Fall back," shouted another of the crossbowmen.

  The crouching revolutionaries stood slowly and backed away from the druid's circle, keeping their crossbows pointed at the oncoming soldiers. One at a time, they fired off their bolts, turned, and ran, leaving Dowmore Glen and those who had fallen behind.

  Liam struggled again to get to his feet. This time the sharpened tip of an arrow blocked his path, and he lay back down.

  "Well, well, if it isn't our old friend Liam."

  Liam looked up into the face of Captain Beetlestone.

  "So," said the captain, a huge grin on his face, "have you reconsidered our offer? By the look of things, I'd say you haven't much choice."

  Chapter 9

  Ryder stretched his back. It was the first time in a month that he'd been able to move without the help of the man chained beside him. The feeling was euphoric, completely erasing the bruises and aching muscles, the marching and the beatings. He was free again, and nothing in the world could take away from that.

  He examined the shackle attached to his wrist. He moved his arm back and forth, making the heavy chain swing. Without a sword, it would have to do.

  Ryder looked up to the swirling melee before him. A couple of Purdun's guardsmen had managed to get on their horses, but most of them—those who hadn't already been killed—were still on foot. Small pockets had formed, the guards standing back to back, lashing out at the bandits encircling them.

  Closer, standing a full head taller than anyone else, was the taskmaster. His whip in one hand, a meat cleaver in the other, he swatted at a freed prisoner. The smaller man threw a rock at Mr. Cobblepot, which the taskmas­ter batted away. Then the huge man stepped forward and brought his cleaver down, slamming it into the prisoner's head. The man's skull split in two, drenching the taskmaster's bare chest with blood.

  The dead man stayed on his feet for a moment longer, swaying, then he toppled to the ground, chunks of red and gray spilling from the massive wound in his head.

  Ryder closed in on the taskmaster. His tormentor stood in the middle of the battle, reveling in his last kill. Fresh blood dripped from his chest, arms, and neck as he looked for his next victim. He didn't see Ryder right away, and the revolutionary turned freed prisoner took advantage of the opening.

  Charging forward, Ryder swung the chain on his wrist up over his head in a quick circle. The heavy end lagged behind his arm, picking up speed as it came around. Cobblepot turned to see Ryder just as the chain hit him square in the face. The shackle cuff made a resounding clank as it collided with the huge man's skull, slapping closed then open again as it hit.

  The taskmaster blinked his eyes and shook his head, obviously stunned by the attack. Ryder took four large steps back, pulling the unwieldy chain with him. It shook and rattled as he prepared to swing it again.

  Cobblepot regained his composure, and he turned to face off with Ryder, a red welt forming on his forehead where the chain had hit him.

  "You should've stayed put, filth," bellowed the huge, bloody man. He cracked his whip toward Ryder, slapping at the dusty ground. "But I'm glad you didn't." The whip cracked again. "Because now I can take you apart."

  The big man lunged, eating up two of Ryder's backward paces with one of his own. He came on with his heavy cleaver, swinging it as effortlessly as though it were nothing more than an extension of his own hand.

  Ryder jumped back and brought his arm around reflexively. The chain swung slowly through the air, and the taskmaster bashed it aside with a quick blow. The chain clanked back, jerking Ryder's arm with it, and he stumbled sideways.

  The taskmaster retaliated with his whip, catching Ryder on the chest and shoulder. The strike burned his skin and tore his gray tunic. But more than anything, it infuriated Ryder. The last time the taskmaster hit him with his whip, Ryder had been bound, unable to fight back. This time, things were different. Ryder was free to take control of his own destiny, and he intended to do just that. Gritting his teeth and forcing the pain from his mind, Ryder spun around, accelerating as he went. The chain rose into the air, carried by his body's momentum. At the end of the spin, a bit disoriented, he raised his arm and lunged toward Cobblepot's head. The heavy cuff slammed against the taskmaster's ear, drop­ping the big man to one knee.

  Cobbl
epot let out a yell, dropped his cleaver, and lifted his hand to the side of his head. When he pulled it away, it too, just like the rest of his body, was covered with blood. This time, however, it was his own.

  Ryder fell back, trying to catch his balance, keeping the bare-chested man in front of him.

  Cobblepot looked up from his place on one knee. "I'll get you for that."

  Standing up, he cracked his whip, snapping it forward and back. Pop, pop, pop, pop. The whip sang through the air. The taskmaster began to advance.

  Ryder swung the chain, the whistling sound of air rushing through the links growing with each circle it made over his head. He held his ground as the big man charged.

  The whip snapped as it came for his face. Ryder dodged to the left and ducked. The whip caught him on the top of his head, making a painful crack as it connected. But it didn't stop Ryder's advance. He lunged forward, sending the chain out at Cobblepot's ankles. The cuff wrapped around the big man's leg and the chain made a full loop, flopping over and tangling itself on its own links—just as Ryder had hoped it would.

  Dropping to his knees, Ryder leaned back with all his weight, pulling the chain toward him with every last ounce of strength he had left.

  The move caught the taskmaster off guard, and Ryder managed to pull the man's legs out from under him. Cobblepot swung his arms in wide circles, trying to stay upright, but all that did was prolong his fall. The taskmaster landed on his back, sending up a huge plume of dust from the dry plain. Ryder immediately jumped to his feet, the chain on his arm still entangled around the taskmaster's leg. Turning a quick circle to give himself as much slack as he could, Ryder lifted his foot in the air and came down on Cobblepot's head with the heel of his boot.

  The big man let out a howl, his whole body convulsing from the blow, and he pulled his hands to his face. The chain around his leg pulled taut, yanking Ryder back. He stumbled to his knees, but the sight of his torturer lying there on the ground drove him on. He leaped to his feet and came at the man again.

  Ryder brought his foot up, this time stomping harder. His heel landed against Cobblepot's hands, smashing them into his face. Blood poured out from behind his fingers, and the taskmaster shook, his body twitching. Ryder repeated his attack, nearly losing his balance with the momentum of his foot.

  His boot connected with a loud snap, and the front of Cobblepot's face collapsed. Ryder's boot heel sank deeper than he had expected it to, and a jolt of fear and exhilaration ran up his spine. The taskmaster screamed and started to thrash. Ryder was thrown to the ground.

  The chain, still tangled around Cobblepot's leg, pulled at Ryder's arm, yanking him around like a dog on a leash. He tried to get closer, to loosen the slack, but the big man was thrashing so hard, there just weren't enough links in the chain. Struggling to his feet, Ryder changed his approach. Risking being pummeled to death by Cobblepot's flailing boots, he looped his arm forward and around, trying to shake the chain free.

  Cobblepot sat up and lunged forward, pulling both hands away from his face to grab at Ryder. The piggish man had been ugly before, but now he was downright hideous. His nose had been completely caved in. Instead of a protruding ridge, there was a deep recess. Blood flowed from the wound, spraying out in speckled drops with each labored breath.

  The rest of the taskmaster's face had shifted, filling in the gap where his nose had been. Where before the cartilage had held the skin taut, it had now gone slack. Large wrinkles of flesh gathered across his cheeks and forehead. It looked to Ryder as if the man's face was now longer, thinner. His eye sockets were closer together, and his gaze seemed to wander, his eyeballs shaking as they tried to focus.

  Ryder easily pulled away from Cobblepot's grasping hands. The man reached, then reached again, as if trying to catch an elusive butterfly. His clumsiness was only accentuated by the agility of his prey. For a moment, Ryder felt pity for the man. Sitting there, bathed in his own blood, the one-time tormentor of men looked like a newborn baby, unable to defend himself against the dangers of the world.

  With his arms in the air, the taskmaster's legs had momentarily stilled, and Ryder took advantage of it. Untangling the shackles from the big man's leg, he took several steps back and breathed. He was tired, perhaps more so than he'd ever been in his entire life. Turning around, he looked out to see the rest of the battle.

  Huge dust clouds rose off the plain. The bandits' horses kicked the dirt into the air as they rode circles around the surrounded guardsmen. There were screams and the other telltale sounds of battle, and Ryder couldn't get a good sense of what was happening.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of some­thing moving in on him. Leaping back without knowing for certain what was coming, Ryder threw himself to the dirt.

  He didn't see much more.

  "Now it's my turn." The taskmaster grabbed him by the throat, lifting Ryder from the ground.

  Ryder was shocked at how fast the big man had gotten to his feet. He clawed at Cobblepot's hands and kicked at the ground with the tips of his toes as he dangled from the big man's grasp.

  "I'm going to break your neck." The taskmaster began to squeeze Ryder's throat.

  Ryder struggled as best he could, but there was little he could do. Cobblepot was much stronger, and even beat­ing on the big man's hands had little effect. Ryder's vision blurred and blood filled his head. The pressure built until it felt as though the whole thing would pop off.

  Into his field of view came the form of a man. His arms were bare and his chest was covered with gray cloth. Over his head he carried what appeared to be a large rock. The man closed on the taskmaster, and Ryder caught sight of his face—and the tattoo on his forehead.

  Nazeem's feet came off the ground as he hit the task­master in the head. Ryder could feel the shock of the blow course through Cobblepot's grip around his neck. The big man jerked, then seemed to relax.

  Ryder pulled free of Cobblepot's chokehold and fell gasping to the ground.

  The taskmaster staggered a step, his upper body sway­ing. He put his hand on the back of his head and turned around to look at Nazeem. As he did, Ryder could see the oozing wound the rock had made. Both the front and the back of his skull were caved in. Blood ran freely down his chest and back. He took one more step toward Nazeem, then collapsed to the ground in a puff of dust.

  "Are you all right?" Nazeem came to Ryder's side, grabbed hold of his arm, and helped him to his feet.

  Ryder shook his head to clear it. "I'll be fine." He looked the tattooed man in the eye. "Thank you."

  Nazeem smiled, bowing his head. "I am sure you would do the same for me."

  A loud hoot came from behind both men, and they spun toward the sound. Ryder grabbed hold of the chain on his wrist and dropped into a crouch, prepared to start swinging.

  As the dust settled, Ryder could see men strewn all over the ground. Some of them wore gray tunics. Others wore the dusky robes of the sand bandits. But most of them Ryder recognized as Purdun's men.

  The fight was over. The bandits had won. They stood on top of the carriage, holding up handfuls of gold and bolts of silk cloth. Others sat on their horses shaking their clubs, swords, and crossbows in the air. Many of the freed prisoners joined them in the revelry.

  Nazeem put his hand on Ryder's shoulder. "I think you can relax."

  Ryder straightened, still gripping the chain. "Can I?"

  The young man who had freed Ryder from his bonds stood on the back of a horse, shaking his fist in the air. He put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill, rolling whistle. All of the bandits immediately stopped their celebrating.

  "This has been a fine victory for the Broken Spear," he said in his high, adolescent voice.

  The bandits let out a joyous cheer.

  "And we have liberated many from their oppressive bonds!"

  This got a cheer out of many of the freed prisoners.

  Ryder, however, kept his mouth shut.

  "Gather all you can carry; we make for
Fairhaven."

  The bandits went to work immediately, packing up the riches from the looted carriage and picking through the belongings of the fallen guardsmen.

  "I have a bad feeling about this," said Ryder.

  "You feel bad about being freed?"

  Ryder shook his head. "No, it is good to be free." He looked at the tattooed man. "I just don't know if we should trust these men. Perhaps we should just slip away and head back to Duhlnarim."

  Nazeem shrugged. "They did not want us in Duhlnarim."

  Ryder shrugged. "I have family there. We would be safe among people we could trust. We'd have time to take some rest." He leaned in close to Nazeem's ear. "Come back with me. You could become one of the Crimson Awl. Help us overthrow Purdun."

  "The revolutionary spirit lives strong in you." Nazeem smiled. "But we are thirty days' march from your home. We have no food or water. And you are covered from head to toe in bruises." He looked out at the bandits as they prepared to leave. "As much as I would like to get my revenge on the dog Purdun for placing me in chains, I think we need time to recover our strength."

  Ryder looked around. None of the bandits were paying any attention to him. He could easily just turn and walk toward home.

  "There will be plenty of time to achieve your revolu­tion after you have healed. Purdun will still be there when you return. And if he is not, then so much the better."

  The bandits were nearly ready to leave. They had packed their horses and were gathering up the freed prisoners. The young man who apparently led the bandits looked right at Nazeem and Ryder.

  He raised his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Come, it is time to leave. We have food and shelter for you in our camp, just east of here. You will be safe with us in the Giant's Run Mountains."

  Ryder looked again at the road that led back to Duhl­narim. He felt Nazeem's hand on his shoulder.

  "My friend, you will never make it," said the tattooed man. "A wise revolutionary is one who lives to fight another day. Better to delay your return than to never return at all. I do not think it would be wise for you to go back to Duhlnarim just yet. But if you are going to go, you must do so now."