by Tom Lloyd
‘Be at peace,’ he whispered to the assassin. ‘The gods reach to embrace you.’
Even in his dazed state Lynx found himself frozen to the spot as the assassin breathed like a landed fish for a few moments longer. Then the life ran out of him and his hands fell back, the mercenaries all letting out their breath together once the assassin was limp.
‘Thought you hated the gods?’ Llaith muttered as he went to get his cane.
‘As much as they hate me,’ Safir confirmed. ‘But a man’s faith is his own. Never spit on a dying man – one truth my father taught me.’
‘Pretty weird as sayings go.’
Safir raised an eyebrow and wiped his blade clean before sheathing the weapons. ‘Not really a saying, my friend. My father was also the finest duellist I knew and taught me after I surpassed my tutors.’
‘So what was he on about?’
‘That life is a gift, no matter what you think of the gods – and no one’s last moment should be tainted with the basest of emotions.’ He paused and nodded to himself. ‘Also it serves as reminder that any duellist taking pleasure in besting another is fated to soon fall.’
‘Shit, that’s a bit deep for this late into the night, ain’t it?’
‘You asked,’ Safir said with a shrug. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll drag the level back down again soon enough.’
‘Well, before you do, thanks,’ Lynx said, wincing. He eased himself unsteadily up. ‘Saved my arse there, it’s appreciated.’
‘Ah, no great harm done,’ Llaith replied. ‘Ladies always forgive a man when he’s rushing off to the rescue, just makes us look more dashing for the future. Looks like we got here in the nick of time, eh?’
‘Just about. Though you played your role a bit too far there, Llaith?’
‘Aye, well,’ Llaith scowled and fumbled at his cane. ‘Bastard bloody catch stuck at just the wrong fucking time.’
‘What?’
Llaith wrenched at the head of the cane and Lynx heard a click. With a triumphant look Llaith slid a slim sword-blade from inside the wooden body of the cane. ‘Ah-ha! Got it! That’s what it’s supposed to do.’
‘Huh, helpful,’ Sitain grunted, looking up from her own contribution to the rescue. ‘’Scuse me for a bit, mister assassin, while I try to get my sword out.’
‘Bet you hear that a lot, eh, Sitain?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘At least her trick worked,’ Lynx pointed out. ‘Shit, I’m impressed, girl – magic at your fingertips and now it turns out you’re able to puke on command?’
‘You can fuck off an’ all,’ she moaned. ‘Turns out a pistol-bow pointing at you ain’t good for a gut full of wine.’
‘Still, the timing was impressive. Can you do it again?’
She spat the last of the vomit from her mouth and looked up with a baleful expression. ‘Get that costume closer and I’ll give it a shot.’
‘So you three coming along for the ride, or just wanted to swoop in and save me before returning to the ball?’
‘I doubt our dancing partners will have bothered to wait for us,’ Llaith said with a regretful smile. ‘I’m up for an adventure I can relate to them tomorrow night instead. We’re yours to command.’
‘We’re bloody not,’ said Safir, the Knight of Snow. ‘I outrank you all so if anyone tries to give me commands, there’ll be trouble. How about you fill us in instead?’
‘Someone’s trying to kill our latest employer,’ Lynx said. ‘Haven’t got much further than that, but it turns out she’s a woman of secrets. Who knew, eh?’
He wobbled when he started walking towards his pistols so Sitain fetched them instead, handing one over and keeping the second for herself. What she offered instead was a small handful of icer cartridges and Lynx nodded his thanks at her presence of mind. He slotted the mage-pistol home on his chest, leaving the clasp open so he could grab it easily.
‘Anyways, I do know Toil’s a woman of more’n one part,’ he continued. ‘One o’ them is some sort o’ last resort insurance among the gangs round here. Calls herself the Red Lady and— Oh great chasm o’ deepest shitting black, who the screaming fuck is this?’
Llaith and Safir turned to see another dark figure advancing silently behind them. Lynx and Sitain both levelled their pistols at it, but that didn’t seem to daunt the newcomer at all. This one wore the same costume as all the others, his white mask covered with corkscrewing lines. His hands were empty, held slightly out in front so it was plain to all he was carrying no weapons.
‘Let me guess, you’re the Knight o’ Dark?’ Lynx added. As he spoke he saw the Thirteen round the corner and hurry to catch his boss up.
‘Like my friend said earlier,’ the man replied in a deep accent, ‘you were only close in your guess.’
He raised his hands further and Lynx heard a croak of surprise from Sitain – then the air seemed to turn black and a great crashing wave of darkness broke over him.
Sitain watched her comrades fold in unison like discarded toys, stunned into inaction herself. The man in the mask kept coming until Sitain was shaken back to her senses and tightened her grip on the pistol, aiming it directly at his face. He stopped just short of Llaith’s motionless body and cocked his head at her.
‘Impressive – not often that I meet a sibling in the arts. In other circumstances, I would be filled with joy, but I think we’re rather beyond that point now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sitain gabbled. ‘What did you do?’
‘You don’t know?’ He tapped the badge on his chest, which seemed to portray a kneeling figure, hair blowing wildly in the wind and hands outstretched. ‘Here’s a hint. This badge isn’t the Knight – it’s the Mage of Dark. Have you never seen a divination deck before?’
‘You’re a mage of dark?’ she stammered. What little she’d heard of them was fanciful rumour at best, so much so no one believed such monsters existed.
‘Are you?’
‘Me? No!’
‘Then I’m clearly not, given you didn’t just end up in a heap. There’s only one way you’d be immune, girl.’
‘Immune?’ Sitain gasped in realisation. ‘You’re a mage of night?’
‘Correct – now please put the gun down.’
‘Not a fucking chance!’ She turned the pistol right a touch and the Thirteen stopped advancing. ‘Stay where you are or you’re dead.’
‘There are two of us,’ the mage said calmly, ‘and one cartridge in that pistol. Unless you’re in the habit of wandering around with sparkers or burners loaded, you could only kill one of us. After that … well, you’d better hope you’re one hell of a knife fighter or it’ll get uncomfortable for you very quickly.’
‘Still means one of you is dead.’
‘And the other one will kill you before butchering your friends,’ he assured her. ‘Not ideal for either party, but there is another way.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We take the big man, the Hanese. He’s the only one we’re here for, the others I don’t care about.’
‘Take him? Get fucked.’
‘It’s either that or one of us kills you and your two friends before dragging the Hanese away anyway. They’re not waking any time soon so you’re on your own here.’
‘If you think I’m letting you take any o’ my friends away you … Shattered gods, you don’t know how drunk an’ angry I am for a start.’
‘Then sober up,’ he said sharply, ‘and fast. We take him no matter what; this way I’m buying one of our lives for three of yours. Drunk and angry gets people killed quicker than most things under moonlight. Choose if you want to be just another festival corpse or someone who sees the dawn. Choose if the lives of your other two friends mean more than your pride.’
Sitain opened her mouth to retort, but the sight of Llaith and Safir helpless on the ground robbed her of her anger. A cold sensation stole over her instead – the realisation that she could indeed be looking at her murderer. She was wel
l aware she was no knife-fighter and once she pulled the trigger she’d not have time to get to Lynx’s gun before the other costumed assassin stuck her.
‘Shit.’
The moment stretched out into half a dozen heartbeats, but still Sitain couldn’t think of a way out. She looked down at Llaith and Safir again then over at Lynx. She knew what he’d tell her to do, knew equally that he’d probably not do it himself. Feeling the bile rise up in her throat again, Sitain nodded to the man.
‘Take him,’ she said in a choked voice, mage-pistol aimed at his heart.
‘Good choice,’ the man murmured.
The other stepped hesitantly forward and crouched at Lynx’s side, gaze briefly darting towards the discarded pistol before he gripped Lynx’s wrists and began to haul him back. Sitain watched him out of the corner of her eye, gun still trained on the one in charge. That one kept his hands raised and still as he backed slowly away. Once they were at a good distance he inclined his head towards Lynx and, without moving fast enough to startle her, went to help his comrade haul the mercenary’s considerable weight.
Sitain watched them go until they had backed around the corner then retrieved the other gun. Part of her wanted to follow them, but she wasn’t much of a shot anyway – certainly not good enough to take both men before they killed her, Lynx or both.
Instead she shoved one mage-pistol into her belt, grabbed Llaith’s wrist and started to pull in the other direction.
‘Shit.’
7
Lynx woke gasping for breath. Ice-cold water sluiced down his face. Before he could make his surroundings out, a kick to the side knocked him over and his face slammed into the hard dirt floor. Nebulous grey shapes twisted behind his eyes and a cold band of pain wrapped around his skull. The stink of mud and old, foetid blood filled his nostrils.
‘Where is she?’ hissed a voice in his ear.
Lynx could see nothing and his body was a dead weight. Just making out the words was hard enough and before he could try to reply he was hauled up on to his backside. The yellow glow of candles cast streaks across his vision then exploded like stars as a fist crashed across his face.
‘Where?’
Lynx rocked from the blow, kept upright only by whoever was holding him. Just as the shock of the punch began to recede they let go and he flopped backwards into the dirt. His hands were tied in front of him, Lynx realised distantly, bound with rope looped through his belt. He coughed and heaved for breath. A note of panic chimed through his body until his winded lungs finally obeyed and filled.
Before he could get his head straight he was pulled up by several sets of hands then slammed down on to a wooden surface. Thick cords of rope fell across his body and tightened before he knew what was happening. Lynx fought to free himself, panic restoring his strength as he bucked and raged, but the ropes were held securely and a moment later a wet rag closed over his face. He howled, the sound muffled and feeble as he thrashed with renewed fervour – then the water fell again and the world closed in on him.
Darkness and bursting light, the cold slap of water and a blinding, consuming cloud of terror. Fear without limits, without reason or understanding. Naked and unstoppable panic that took hold of his entire body and even eclipsed the ache of his choking throat.
How long it dragged on he couldn’t say – the part that was human inside Lynx fled shrieking from the torture and only his fear remained. Somehow he loosened his bonds a little and wrenched around, kicking furiously, but the ropes fought savagely back. His head was slammed back down against the solid wood even as the rag was removed. His bonds tightened, pinned him until his bones creaked as he wheezed and retched, fighting back up the water that had forced its way inside.
A few moments of panting respite was all he was afforded. Just enough to tighten the ropes again, to fix him more securely and leave him like an insect pinned to a board. Above him he saw beams in the gloom, a warehouse roof, then the rag descended and terror consumed him once more.
The world fell away, contracted to a single point of fear amid the void. Once, twice, the rag was removed and voices howled at him – hands struck his face and the animal demands of rage flowed over his body – but he could understand none of it. It was all a distant memory, words forgotten and thoughts absent. Only the fear remained, fear and the burning need for air as the void grew thicker and darker with every passing second.
Until it was over. The rag fell away, the ropes slackened. Lynx convulsed on the table top, wriggling feebly as he tried to heave for air and vomit up water in the same movement. He barely noticed the hands lift him, the pounding of fists on his back as water evacuated his stomach and lungs together.
Hands still bound, he hung limp and whimpering at the edge of the table until finally there was nothing more to come up and he was dumped on to the floor.
‘Out,’ said a voice somewhere beyond the blur around him.
Lynx paid it no attention. He shook with fear and cold both, feeling as if his body belonged to another as he lay in a heap in the dirt. Slowly, so slowly, he found his senses returning, the fog of terror easing as his heart lessened its hammering and he began to be able to see again.
‘Back with us?’ asked the voice.
Lynx replied with a coughing fit that left him face down in the mud, boots scrabbling uselessly. His hands were still tied beneath him and he could barely feel them beyond the pain in his wrists.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ the voice said in a fatherly tone. ‘The others misinterpreted my orders.’
Lynx flinched and screwed up his eyes, but the discordant jangle of fear inside him had another note playing with it – anger. The anger that had kept him alive in To Lort prison, the anger that drove him on day after day. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to weep and howl curses at his tormentor. He settled for rolling over on to his back.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ the voice continued after a long pause. ‘But perhaps that’s the point.’
Lynx blinked up and flinched as he saw a man with tanned skin and a hero’s jaw reach forward. The man ignored Lynx’s reaction and took hold of his sodden shirt, pulling him forward until Lynx was sat upright once more.
‘Knight of Blood eh? Quite the sense of humour on her, hmm?’
Lynx croaked, trying to remember how to work his mouth, but desperate to talk rather than face the cloth again.
‘Coming from you?’ he whispered at last.
The man looked at his own clothes and smiled. A costume like the others, black and white, with the crumbling moon badge on one side and a figure holding a shield and mace on the other.
‘A fair point,’ he conceded, ‘but one thing I’ve learned from Toil; a joke can be deadly serious at the same time. You’d have learned that in time, my friend. Costumes are a cover on festival days, but a powerful image when you’re dealing with the credulous and fearful.’
‘What?’
‘I could kill the Red Lady, wipe out a few bands of criminals even, and likely the rest would come for me. They’re too stupid to think hard about things, your average criminals. Careful reasoning is rationed in those circles, being the first to act usually suffices. But our girl knew the fear of a symbol would work a lot better.’
He patted the badge on his chest. ‘Fucking with the man who killed the Red Lady could just be a challenge to the hard of thinking. But if you’ve been brought up on stories of folklore and horror, the child inside you’s going to hesitate before facing down the Warlord of Dark and all his evil servants. And a moment’s hesitation is all we need.’
A nebulous thought nagged at the back of Lynx’s head, some worry he couldn’t quite place until Sitain’s face appeared in his mind.
‘Shit. My friends. What’ve you done to them?’
‘They’re alive, I’m told.’
‘What?’
‘One of them was a mage. Lucky enough for them at least. There was a stand-off and she bought their lives with yours.’
‘And you let the
m walk?’
‘I wouldn’t have, but my own mage holds opinions on butchering his magical brethren. He brought me what I wanted so I choose to look the other way.’
‘And you’d be who, then?’
‘A man who’s looking for the Red Lady, one who’s known her longer than you and seen her do worse than this when she needed information.’
‘Traitor, then,’ Lynx spat.
That seemed to amuse the man. ‘If you like. Loyalty doesn’t much figure in our world. Certainly wasn’t the reason she recruited me.’ He paused. ‘Is that it? You’re a man of honour? I suppose the novelty would appeal to our Red Lady – for a while at any rate. I’m doing you a favour in the long run here. She can be cruel when she gets bored.’
‘Ah. Making sense now.’
‘Hmm? Hah, not quite, friend! Our relationship never ran that way, too much like birds of a feather to give that a try. No, nothing so … Well, I was going to say nothing so simple, but a man’s ambition outgrowing his employer’s is hardly a complex and nuanced tale. I’m bored with taking orders, time to gather a little power of my own.’
Lynx coughed as he tried to laugh and rile the man. ‘Ambition? Sure. Keep telling yourself that.’
‘I will. For the meantime, however, we’ve more important business than you changing my mind about sparing you. The Red Lady – where is she?’
‘You know her better’n me.’
‘Not this night.’
‘She told me to meet her at the palace.’
The hero’s face darkened. ‘You’ve been following her breadcrumbs all night. Don’t waste any more of my time unless you want my friends to come back and we’ll do it properly. This time they’ll give you enough time to remember how to answer questions before putting you back under.’
The man leaned forward and Lynx saw the humour hadn’t left his face. A gold tooth gleamed as he smiled shark-like at Lynx. Under the man’s robes, Lynx could see a crisp tunic collar, black edged in silver braid.
‘That costume’s not entirely a joke, is it?’ the man said conspiratorially. ‘She may be acting the Princess of Blood, but the Knight of Blood’s hardly going to be worn by a man unfamiliar with violence. There’s a comment about you too, I reckon, just as much as the choice is about her. What’s that tattoo on your cheek say? Loyalty or death? You don’t have much of a gentle, let’s-talk-this-through-over-brandy look about you. If I was a betting man, I’d put the house on you being well acquainted with pain and breaking points. You’re not so young as to believe a brave soul can hold out forever.’