by Robert Day
With only the thought of retrieving Llewellyn’s Rapier, Valdieron dashed after the fleeing Officer, heedless of the pain of the bleeding cut in his shoulder and the warning bells in his mind that told him this was not wise. Rounding the corner of the Inn, he entered a wide alleyway, muddied from the rain and dimly lit by the light of the flanking buildings.
The Bloodguard Officer passed the closed gates that allowed entry to the rear of the Inn where the stables were located, and as Valdieron followed him, the alley became darker and narrower as it twisted and turned between dark buildings long since fallen into disuse, it seemed. He was making ground, however, despite the necessary caution he was taking not to be caught by surprise at every turn, though he sensed the officer was not really trying to evade him.
It soon became obvious why as Valdieron followed the officer into a widened section of the alley. This area was littered with filth and garbage, some recognizable, others not so easily, though the pervading smell of rot and decay was familiar. The Bloodguard slowed and turned at the far side of the alley’s end, though he did not seem alarmed there was no way for him to go. In fact, he was smiling his usual mocking, condescending smile as he spun Llewellyn’s Rapier casually in his hand.
By the time Valdieron slowed, ten paces from the Bloodguard, the trap was sprung, not that he did not sense what was happening before he entered, but his eyes picked out several dark figures disengage themselves from dark alcoves and piles of garbage, while behind him, the sound of footsteps marked several more. He gave no indication he knew of their presence as he regarded the Bloodguard.
“Why do this?” he called, more than a little bemused by what was happening. Sure, he was a stranger in this city and he had not got off to a good start with the young officer, but he knew such circumstances were not nearly enough for one to lay an ambush for revenge. Perhaps this officer’s warped thirst for megalomania demanded he punish Valdieron for any insult he may have received.
“Why not!” returned the Bloodguard, drawing out his own sword as he thrust Llewellyn’s Rapier beneath his belt. The weapon seemed to be made of a dark metal, appearing as if coated with a dark polish that did not reflect any light. Valdieron had seen a knife of similar make, however, and his breath caught as the implications of what was happening dawned on him.
He had mistaken the ambush as a simple act of revenge for a slight of honor or some such offence, but he pieced together several particulars that had not occurred to him as he had chased the Bloodguard. Firstly, the man needed no light to see by, and although it was not pitch dark, a man with normal eyesight could not have navigated the dark and muddied alley with such ease as this Bloodguard. Also, the figures who had appeared around him also had no source of light, armed with weapons that were also of dark, non reflective metal.
An Ashar’an ambush! He was surprised he had not felt some sensation due to their presence, but realized in Thorhus when he had confronted the Ashar’an Assassin, he had felt a tingling then, not at his presence, but when the Ashar’an had cast a spell at him. Still, he was more than a little angry for missing the signs previously.
“You really are stupid, Kay'taari. My Master wanted the pleasure of killing you himself, but when I tell him how pathetic you were, he will likely forgive me. He will surely regret the inconvenience and hassle of capturing your little Princess to lure you to him, however, but she should make a suitable mistress for him, if he can keep her gagged at all times.”
The desire to rush forward and attack the Ashar’an calmed inside Valdieron as he realized some useful information might be gained from this encounter. Around him he sensed the other figures had halted, some fifteen or so feet away, and the young Ashar’an Bloodguard was making no move towards him.
“Your Master cannot hide from me in Sha’kar. I will find him, and he will pay for any harm that befalls Kitara.”
Once again the young officer sniggered as he took a step forward, testing the weight of the familiar weapon in his hand. “Do not fear of finding my Master, Kay’taari. He will find you, but only in death, where your soul he will forever torment, with the images of your precious Princess newly crowned Queen of the Voids!”
Whatever the words might have implied flew from Valdieron’s thoughts as the young officer hurled himself forwards, sword raised to attack. The distance was several paces, but it seemed in only a heartbeat the dark sword was flashing at his neck, a pale gleam its only show of existence as it moved with the whisper of imminent death.
Desperation and the fact he was already warm and focused allowed Valdieron to parry the blinding slash, which turned into a half feint as the Ashar’an twisted the sword deftly to flick it at Valdieron’s groin. Reflexes and probably a little luck saved Valdieron as he swept his own sword back and down to shift the dark weapons keen edge from cutting into his unprotected stomach. Once again the speed of the Ashar’an caught him unaware, as the sword once again reversed with barely a flick of the wrist. The flat of the unholy blade slapped against his wounded shoulder a fraction of a second before he could return his sword to parry, causing him to wince at the pain. The Ashar’an withdrew after the attack, blade lowered as he circled Valdieron slowly, his mocking grin still showing disdain.
“Oh, but how my Master would have crushed you like a worm, Kay’taari. For all the prophecy you seem to draw, you could no sooner save yourself than save your Princess from the hands of Vighor.” Once again the blinding attack came, a spinning thrust and slice across the mid-section barely evaded, before he received another stinging slap across the thigh with the shadowy blade. Valdieron could only guess the Ashar’an was aided by some magical means that sped his actions to phenomenal proportions, though he could not tell if it were a spell or an effect of something he wore. Twice now he could have been cut badly, yet the Ashar’an seemed to enjoy playing with him in his own version of cat and mouse.
“The founder of your bastardly clan is long dead at the hands of my Grandfather, Ashar’an!”
At this, the young Ashar’an’s eyes flashed angrily as his smile transformed into a sneer. “Death has no meaning for the Lord of the Dead, Kay’taari. The foolish actions of Astan-Valar only served to increase Vighor’s power, and thus condemn you and your world to death. It is a pity in a way, for that Princess of yours is indeed a beautiful specimen, despite her lowly status. I am sure Vighor will turn a blind eye to any spoiling to befall her before she is given to him.”
Of all Valdieron heard from the arrogant Ashar’an, this last threat struck him like an icy dagger through the heart. He knew now who, or at least what held Kitara captive in Sha’kar, and the implied danger this held her in fuelled his determination and anger. He was unsure of his true feelings towards the Princess, but he was determined not to have her suffer in a struggle that was his to fight. He assumed the Ashar’an had her because of her possession of the piece of the Disk he had foolishly allowed her to keep, and if anything happened to her, the guilt would be all his to bear.
And so it was when the Ashar’an’s next foudroyant strikes came, Valdieron met them with a speed and strength that surprised both, for what Valdieron lacked in skill and experience he made up for now with desire. This Ashar’an was a hurdle to overcome on the road to saving Kitara, and the vision of her dead or dying stayed with him as he matched the Ashar’an blow for blow.
Not as cocky on his next attacks, the Ashar’an began to press Valdieron with an array of blinding thrusts and cuts, using his speed to try and find a gap in Valdieron’s defenses, and although many times the keen edge of the dark blade seemed to brush Valdieron’s skin, each time he managed to evade the deadly weapon’s bite.
But unaided as he was, Valdieron knew he could not keep the tainted weapon from finding its mark for long. Already his arms stung from the necessity of keeping their blinding pace, while his shoulder burned from the cut he had already received from Javin. The Ashar’an seemed to sense this, and his next pass was concentrated towards taking Valdieron wider and wider, looking fo
r the moment where he became tired and vulnerable to a straight up thrust or cut. Valdieron knew he was in trouble, for although he might have been able to match the Ashar’an with the blade, the Ashar’an had his magic to assist him, and it seemed he was not even tiring.
Sensing the finishing blow approaching fast, Valdieron gambled on a desperate move. While parrying a rising cut near his ribs, he willed the Dragonsword to flame, as he had once before when fighting the Devil at the Cultists temple in northern Ariakus. The sudden light and the intense heat from the blade did as Valdieron hoped, catching the Ashar’an off guard and causing him to blink at the sudden illumination, and pull back on his attack. Using his moment, Valdieron pressed with his weapon and spun it around the Darksword, flicking it away in an attempt to score a hit at the Ashar’an’s ribs. Speed saved the Ashar’an as his sword came from nowhere to bar the strike, but as the two pressed together for a moment, the fire from the Dragonsword seared the cheek of the Ashar’an, who screamed and pushed Valdieron away with a strength that seemed inhuman, causing him to fly through the air and land atop a small pile of rubbish.
He scrambled to his feet hoping he was quick enough to parry any trailing attacks, but he found the Ashar’an still standing where he was, feeling at his burnt face with an expression of horror and disbelief. His eyes never left Valdieron, however, and they seemed to burn with a newborn hatred that promised pain and suffering, and considering the attack brought him only a little reprieve, Valdieron knew he was in trouble still. As yet, the other Ashar’an encircling them had not made a move to help their companion, which was some small consolation, yet Valdieron wondered if he managed to defeat one, if another would merely take his place. The concept was not a pleasant one.
“You are dead, Kay’taari!”
There was no doubting that now the Ashar’an would not hold back. He seemed calm, as if building up the energy for the next strike, and he inched towards Valdieron like a hunting cat would its prey, waiting for the exact moment to strike.
Feeling the helplessness of the situation, Valdieron sighed, realizing his own foolishness had gotten him into a situation his meager fighting skills could not get him out of. He had idiotically assumed half a year’s training made him good enough to beat any challenge to come his way. True, he had performed well at the tournament and versus the likes of Javin, but it was another matter entirely to defeat this Ashar’an, whose very nature was to fight and kill, as they had done for centuries.
He began to raise his weapon as the Ashar’an moved, even though he knew he was in trouble, hoping only to die giving as good as he got. Barely before the two weapons met, however, Valdieron saw the eyes of the Ashar’an move to a point behind his back. Thinking one of the other Ashar’an was moving up for a sneak attack, he stumbled to the side as he parried, the force of the strike sending his weapon spinning out of his hands into the mud, but he had no time for reaction as a dark form flashed past him. He knew it was no Ashar’an as the low growl followed the feline figure, hurtling past the Ashar’an who seemed to jerk to the side at the last moment to evade the cat.
With barely a skid, Kaz’ talons dug into the muddy ground searching for traction as he turned sharply and launched himself back at the Ashar’an. Any hopes the cat might prove a match for the sword wielding Assassin ended as a blurring flurry of strikes caught the cat from all angles, the mingled growls of pain and hatred echoing through the alleyway before the two separated, the Ashar’an sliding back gracefully while Kaz tried to leap to the side but only managed a few jerking steps before collapsing.
“NO!” Valdieron leapt towards his fallen friend, seeing the deep cuts and lines of warm blood streaking the cat’s striped hide. Kaz tried to rise, his large eyes pleading Valdieron for assistance, but there was no help for the cat, Valdieron knew, as he cradled the big cat’s head. The feline shook convulsively as Val stroked its neck, soothing it with soft words of love and thanks until the great body moved no more.
“It is you who are dead!” he whispered, turning to face the Ashar’an, who stood with his sword lowered in one hand, while his other hand was lifted to his throat. He still wore his cocky smile, but even as Valdieron watched, his hand fell away from his throat, revealing deep gashes that could have only been caused by the Moorcat. Blood began to trickle from them, turning to a torrent as the Ashar’an tried to speak, but only gasping coughs came out as he fell first to his knees and then face first into the mud. He also gave several convulsive shudders as the life faded from his body, then he became still. In a startling instant, his dark sword glowed briefly before fading from sight, obviously the result of some strange magic.
Knowing the dead Ashar’an was the least of his worries, Valdieron rolled towards his sword, but as his fingers grasped its hilt, a booted foot kept him from lifting it. His eyes rose expecting again to see an Ashar’an, but the tall figure above him wore a cloak that shifted in hues like a chameleon, blending with the surroundings so well Valdieron had trouble telling if it was indeed a humanoid form. Golden skin showed beneath the raised hood of the mysterious cloak, and large, dark eyes looked down at Valdieron without expression.
Not feeling in a particularly pleasant mood, Valdieron could only assume the new figure was an enemy, so he rose and struck out at the figure. He thought his attack had somehow caught the stranger by surprise as he did not react, but instead of striking flesh, Valdieron’s fist struck some invisible barrier barely inches from the figure’s face. Cursing a now sore hand, he kicked out with a spinning kick at the figure, but his foot struck the barrier again, jarring his leg and leaving the figure unmoved. He made to strike again, but the figure raised his arm, halting him as he stepped backwards off the Dragonsword. Scooping down to pick it up, Valdieron turned so as to attack the Ashar’an, only to find they had disappeared, faded like ghosts into the night.
“Where are they?” asked Valdieron, turning sharply to this new figure. He guessed the stranger was no enemy, else he would have attacked by now, but why had he kept Valdieron from his sword so he could not attack the Ashar’an before they disappeared? “Who the hell are you?”
The stranger arched his brow at the harsh question, whether in surprise or offence Valdieron did not know, nor care. His shoulders slumped as he turned away from the stranger and he stumbled back over to where Kaz lay, feeling the fatigue of battle and emotional loss pull at his body. He fell to his knees and again cradled the dead cat’s head in his lap.
“You silly, noble fool of a cat. Why couldn’t you just stay back at the Inn, sleeping in front of the fire?”
“Forget Sha’kar, Valdieron. You must restore the Disk.”
“To hell with the Disk, and to hell with you!” Valdieron looked up at the figure as he spoke, the pain of his loss fuelling his rage, and for a moment he feared he had erred as the stranger’s large eyes flashed gold, like tiny suns, but then cleared. He did not fear the stranger was an enemy, for his warning had told Valdieron he was at least an ally whose interest was the restoration of the Disk, but he still remained a stranger who Valdieron neither liked nor trusted at the moment. He tried to keep his teary eyes steady as he glared at the stranger, but could not resist averting his gaze after a moment’s contact.
“‘Washed with the blood of innocents and wielding the dragon's flame, he shall rise from the flames and strike at the hosts of hell, and death shall be his guide, to either salvation or destruction.’ Farewell, Valdieron.”
The stranger was gone, disappeared in the fraction of time it took Valdieron to look away and back. His whispered words seemed to float on the wind still, like a warning, but already Valdieron had to turn away as he heard footfalls coming down the alleyway. The flickering aura of light from either a lantern or torch floated into the dead end alley, and Valdieron recognized Javin instantly. The Darishi carried one of his sabers in one hand and looked around in surprise and wonder as he neared Valdieron, though his face darkened as he saw the still form of Kaz and that of the Bloodguard.
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�Let’s get you back to the Inn, Val.” The Darishi obviously had questions to ask, but he knew now was not the time for asking them, seeing the look on his friend’s face. He sheathed his saber and placed his hand on Val’s shoulder, guiding the young man, who resisted slightly at first but then allowed himself be guided mechanically, without speaking. They returned to the Inn after retrieving Llewellyn’s muddied Rapier from the still body of the Bloodguard.
There was no choice but to use the rear door, for Javin had left the crowd at the Inn saying this was part of the act and that they would return, but too many questions would be asked if he were to return with Valdieron like this. Luckily, they were able to make it to their room without being confronted.
“Get your things together. I’ll go back down and let them know the entertainment is at an end for the night. Then we must be gone. We probably have until tomorrow before that Bloodguard is found, and two hundred people below have seen you running after him with sword in hand. We have to be as far away as we can when that happens. They will no doubt assume it was Kaz who killed him, and too many have seen Kaz with us today.”
Valdieron barely registered his friend’s words as a multitude of thoughts and emotions ran through his mind: pain, anger, sorrow, guilt, regret, and shame. He was reminded of the great weight he carried with him in the form of his quest, and wondered if the fulfillment of it was worth the losses, and how many would pay dearly for being associated with him, or what he was fighting for. He still did not have a firm idea of that, knowing it was something he was ‘born to do’, but still he did not have to like it. Indeed, he would have been content never to have been thrust into this new world, and stayed on the farm with his ‘father’.
Javin found him weeping on the bed minutes later, still refusing to speak of what had occurred. It was some time after that the two quietly slipped out of Altaire, taking the road south under the glow of Qantari.