by T P Sheehan
Each evening before Catanya retired to her bed she chose six petals from a dried iris for such a quality that she would hear an intruder step upon it, yet they themselves would unlikely discern the feeling underfoot, nor register the sound unless they were looking for it. She distributed the petals at each of the three possible entry points to the chancel, with more positioned closer to her bed. This was the first night it had been used to good effect.
Her eyes still closed, Catanya concentrated on slowing her breathing. With her thumb and forefinger, she silently drew a single throwing knife from its sheath, all the while gripping her lance with slightly less tension than was required to ignite it. A moment later, a second, closer iris petal was compromised. She knew by the direction and sound that the intruder had entered through a broken window along the eastern wall of the chancel and was now ten feet to her left from where she lay.
Catanya pounced.
She sat bolt upright and threw the knife. The blade pirouetted through the air and buried itself into the wall behind her target. The sound of another blade whistled back toward her. She tilted her head and it missed her scarred ear by a hair’s breadth. The thumping-crackle sound of two lances igniting simultaneously pierced through the stone chancel.
In the glow of light emitted from her assailant’s lance, Catanya could make out a face beneath a black hood—Demi…
Catanya thought that of all the priests sent to kill her, at least they had sent the one she was least fond of. It will make it easier to kill her, Catanya conceded.
Demi did not hesitate for a moment. She came hard and fast, swinging her lance at Catanya, who somersaulted off the bed, pulling her lance overhead as she landed. Her blade scored across Demi’s, sending red sparks scattering across the floor. Demi came at Catanya again and again. Every strike was meant to kill and forced Catanya into a defensive position. If there was one thing Catanya had learned to hate, it was being on the defensive. Too often Joffren had held the upper hand, and she had worked hard over the months to learn how to reverse that position. But this was different. Demi was far more aggressive and gave Catanya little room to negotiate or make a counter attack.
Unexpectedly, Demi extinguished her lance, sheathed it, and drew two throwing knifes. Catanya waited. Her eyes were fixed on Demi’s dark silhouette illuminated by the moon that peered through the long, narrow window behind her. Not a word was spoken between them.
Demi threw both blades at once. Catanya deflected one with her lance, sending it upward, embedding it in the ceiling. The other hit her firmly in the abdomen, burying itself into the armour of her Ferustir suit.
Catanya moved in, now on the attack. Demi reached for her lance but Catanya gave her no time to retrieve it so she had to resort to hand combat. The vambraces covering her forearms deflected the sharp blades of Catanya’s lance with skill. She knew how to absorb the blows to minimise injury. However, Catanya knew the weak points in Demi’s armour, for it was similar to her own. Her lance made purchase twice at the wrists and again under her left armpit, severing tendons and blood vessels each time.
“Boe’l fara gin parshin-ar!” Catanya shouted, creating a small ball of fire that hung above their heads, illuminating the room so she could better see her opponent. She continued the attack, giving Demi little time to draw a weapon.
“Fara gin paroosha!” Demi shouted back and the ball of fire exploded, throwing Catanya to the floor. Startled and singed from the flames, Catanya still managed to hold tight to her lance so it maintained its blaze. Demi reached for two more throwing knives but let them slip to the floor, her hands weak from wounds and slippery with blood. Still lying on the ground, Catanya was quick to throw a knife of her own that speared Demi’s throat.
Demi’s large eyes grew even larger with shock. She reached for her lance, squeezing it with both hands, but it failed to ignite. Catanya knew what this meant.
“The life of the fire drains from you,” Catanya said. She knew that once a priest was fatally injured, their lance no longer recognised their life force. Catanya was back on her feet, ready to attack in case Demi had any surprises left. But she didn’t. Instead, she chuckled and smiled a bloody smile.
“You are good, Semsame,” Demi gargled then coughed. “You are good.” She fell to her knees. Catanya dropped her weapon and lunged to Demi, catching her as she fell. As much as Catanya was not fond of her, it seemed wrong to turn her back on a dying priest.
She held Demi in her lap and they stared into one another’s eyes. “I know who the Electus is,” Catanya said, knowing her secret would die with Demi.
“We know you do,” Demi struggled for her last breath. “That is why we need you dead.” She smiled again, but Catanya saw this time it was different—there was sympathy in her face.
A moment later, Demi died in Catanya’s arms.
The westward road toward Ba’rrat was bustling with peasants, traders and slaves. The relentless heat of summer made movement arduous and everyone was well sheltered from the sun in cloths and shawls covering their faces. A hot, dry wind from beyond the Neverseas scalded the people mercilessly like the torching flame of dragons. Any one of them could have been a cloaked assassin seeking their target, and one among them—dressed in a hooded robe—was a priest.
Catanya had fled the chancel in Brindle after killing Demi and ran the twenty-mile journey to the outskirts of Ba’rrat by sunrise, slowing only when walking afforded her anonymity among the crowd. She could not risk waiting for Austagia and Jael when her position in the chancel was obviously compromised. Catanya had buried Demi’s lance beneath a tree at a mile marker ten miles short of Ba’rrat. She did not want it falling into the wrong hands. Demi’s throwing knives, however, she stashed with her own in her Ferustir suit. Demi also had on her a leather pouch of gold coins that Catanya kept for herself.
The presence of Quag guards this close to the looming mass of the black capitol made her nervous. It was the first time Catanya had laid eyes on the infamous warriors. From the sight of their black armour, their black blades and their menacing demeanour she knew they would not back away easily in a fight. If any one of them pulled the robe from her back, she would present as an instant threat. A priest is the sworn enemy of the Quag, she deliberated. Catanya knew getting into Ba’rrat would require some ingenuity.
Walking slowly and loitering deliberately, Catanya considered her surroundings and assessed her options. She scanned the movements of everyone in her vicinity, looking for inconsistent behaviour, but knew any assassin would be too smart for that. But who would be my assassin? Joffren? Austagia? She had to consider every angle. The deception came from somewhere… how else would Demi have known I was waiting in Brindle?
A horse-drawn cart carrying bags of potatoes trundled slowly toward the city walls, accompanied by what looked like a father and son driving the horses forward. Catanya watched their progress carefully as they passed a guard check point where a snooping wyvern sniffed around the cart and the produce within it. After a brief argument, the father reluctantly made payment for passage to the second checkpoint further on, where the process occurred one more time. From here, the cart travelled just a mile more to Ba’rrat’s southern city gates.
Further back along the road, many more carts lined the street, slowly trundling toward the gates. It is the only way in… Catanya determined. She considered each cart in turn—looking for an opportunity she could take advantage of. Each one carried goods for trade. Many carried food and produce, others livestock, chickens and fowls. Some carried more exotic things like garments, gems and jewellery.
There was one cart among them that had pulled over to the roadside. It was loaded with sacks and burdened with a broken wheel. The owner, most likely a farmer, struggled in the heat trying to repair the damage. He was travelling alone and none offered to help him with the task.
Catanya wandered over to the farmer. “Let me help you, sire,” she offered.
Looking her over, the farmer dismissed her and laughed.
“This is no job for a woman and besides… I have no coin to pay you with,” he snorted.
“I ask for no payment,” Catanya said, and set about moving large stones from the roadside in order to prop the cart up so the broken wheel could be removed. It was something she had helped do at the quarry back home when the sandstone wore heavy on the traders’ carts. The farmer was intrigued with her efficiency and progress and in the end got to work, helping her until the cart was well supported and he was able to work the wheel free for repairs. Within the hour it was fixed and mounted back on the cart.
“Thanking you, kind lady,” the farmer said, tipping his leather hat respectfully. “Much appreciated and ever the more so on this cursed hot day of Solstice. But like I said—I have no coin to pay you.”
“I ask for no coin. In fact, I will pay your fee into the city in exchange for free passage.” Catanya discretely deposited Demi’s leather pouch into the man’s hand then held his wrist firmly. “Are we agreed?”
The farmer prised open the strings of the purse revealing the gold coins within. His eyes widened and he nodded. “Agreed!”
After helping him move the stones away from under his cart, Catanya sat herself next to him at the front of it. The farmer leaned toward her and whispered, “I shall enjoy myself in Ba’rrat’s taverns this evening!”
Catanya smiled. The farmer drove the cart over to the first checkpoint, paying without dispute, then onward to the next and toward the gates of Ba’rrat.
CARLO
The two guards escorted Magnus down the corridor toward the armoury. It was always the same two guards. Magnus wondered how they could stand doing this every day of their life when they were free to do as they pleased. Living everyday the same, Magnus considered, is not living at all. On this day, however, one of the guards halted halfway along the corridor and turned to Magnus, pinning him against the wall.
“Who are you really, Balgur?” he asked, pressing his forearm against Magnus’s throat.
Magnus did not care for the guard’s aggression and he knew he could overpower both him and his accomplice with his bare hands should he need to. Besides, Carlo valued his life far higher than any two of his miserable guards. Indeed—rumours had reached Magnus of the change in fortune and prosperity Carlo was experiencing thanks to Magnus’s exploits in the arena. And so Magnus stared blankly at the guard and said nothing.
“Well, have you nothing to say?” The guard spat in Magnus’s face. Still, Magnus stared back at the man, showing no signs at all of retaliating.
The second guard laughed. “That’s ten darna you owe me! I told you he wouldn’t flinch.”
“Shut your gob,” the first guard sneered at his kinsman. He released Magnus and pushed him on toward the armoury. Carlo was waiting for him as usual whilst watching another one of his slaves lose their life to a better fighter in the arena.
“Damn them all! I don’t know why I even bother, Lucas. I should have you fight every battle here for me. No need for any other slaves.” Magnus did not reply. He kept a strict policy of not conversing with Carlo any more than he had to.
“I have something for you,” Carlo continued. He handed Magnus a long, bound package. Magnus lay it upon the weapons table, pushing the crude swords and spears aside to make room for it. “Open it!” Carlo insisted. Magnus folded back the cowhide wrapping to reveal two black blades. They were freshly forged and similar to those carried by the Quagmen. Looking at them brought old memories back.
“I had them made especially…” Carlo said.
… They were dark memories Magnus had all but forgotten…
“The right size for a swift attack…”
Magnus was not hearing Carlo’s speech, for his mind was elsewhere.
… He was fleeing from his burning house. The large Quagman set upon him with his large black blades trying to kill him…
“These will take you to new heights, Balgur. You will be invincible…”
… Then the Quagman was set upon by Ganister, who saved his life and sacrificed his own to protect his family…
“Will you fight with them, Balgur?” Carlo was growing frustrated at Magnus, lost in his own world. Magnus thought of Sarah’s story of his mother’s loss—of her father and brothers, slaughtered by Quagmen in their own lands.
“What?” Magnus grunted.
“Don’t give me attitude, boy. Remember your place if you wish to maintain your…”
Magnus interrupted him. “I’ll fight with your blades, but give me someone worth fighting. Give me your guards, or better still, have Delvion give me his Quagmen and I’ll show him that a man of the Fire Realm is thrice the man they are.”
Carlo fell silent for a moment. Magnus could see he was deciding how to respond to this outburst.
Magnus concluded, “You make me fight to live. So give me a fight worth living for, Carlo.”
After further contemplation, Carlo nodded. “Yes, very well then. It is time to raise the stakes. So I tell you what. You make a spectacle out there today and I’ll see what I can organise for the morrow.”
Magnus said no more. He marched out of the armoury and into the waiting arena. His opponent stood at its centre, waiting for the infamous Balgur to appear. It was a man who called himself Shadow. He had grown notorious over the past month for the spectacle he made in front of the crowd and they had quickly grown to love him. Magnus’s battle with him today was long called for by the folk of Ba’rrat and was highly anticipated. Both Balgur and Shadow had their supporters and the crowd cheered heartily as Magnus walked to his opponent, swirling his blades through the air to please them.
Shadow’s game was always to delay his first attack and focus on making a mockery of his opponent by avoiding their ill-attempted blows. Once the crowd were amused, they would shout and encourage their hero to strike. Shadow would bow to the crowd and defeat his opponent, as though the audience had taken ownership of the battle. The perfect showman, Magnus conceded. This will not happen today. Magnus wanted to shock the crowd—he wanted to shock them and silence them and have them understand he was not to be beaten.
And so the battle began…
Magnus walked to the centre of the arena, stopping fifty feet short of Shadow, where he knelt on one knee. Magnus brought his left blade to his face and ran his tongue along the length of it, feeling the sharpness of the steel cut the surface, releasing a stream of blood from his mouth. The crowd released a collective gasp as blood spilled down his chin to the ground. Even Shadow grimaced at the sight. Magnus was getting the response he wanted. He remained still as the dragon blood within him seared through his face, healing the deep wound in moments, yet the power of such healing was hidden within his closed mouth. He repeated the spectacle with his other blade, moving the crowd to silence at the peculiar exhibition.
Magnus remained on one knee as the crowd began to cheer, encouraging Shadow to move in for the kill. It was not his style at all, for he relished the counterattack. But Balgur—who they knew was named after the greatest fire dragon of them all—waited, bathing in the heat that coursed through him and filled him with strength and fury.
Against his better judgement, Shadow broke into a run, charging at Magnus, wielding his long sword above his head. He swung it down upon his foe with all his strength. Magnus leapt up off the ground with a speed Shadow did not expect, twisting his torso to avoid Shadow’s attack and completing the movement by whipping his own blades about in an arc. The first blade sliced through Shadow’s chest, the second his neck. Magnus’s opponent fell dead to the ground.
The crowd were silenced. Magnus returned to the centre of the arena, raising both swords in a ‘V’ high above his head. He held a snarled expression upon his bloodied face. Balgur looked like a wild beast—much like the dragon whose name he bore. To complete the spectacle, he let out an angry roar. When he had finished, he addressed the crowd.
“Bring no more helpless slaves to fight me in the arena!” Magnus shouted as loud as he could, turning to be su
re all the crowd were listening. “I Balgur—King of Fire—challenge Delvion’s men to fight me, if they’ve the courage to do so. Fight me! Prove you are worthy of your King. And may the best of you step forward first.”
Just as Magnus hoped, the crowd reacted with glorious cheers and screams. He walked from the arena to the armoury where Carlo was sitting with his face buried in his hands.
“No, no, no…” Carlo muttered. “Do not do this to me.”
“Let us see how full the arena is tomorrow,” Magnus said, spitting the last trace of blood from his mouth.
Carlo stormed over to the weapons rack, throwing the swords and spears across the room in a rage. “Who do you think you are? Now I will have every Quag warrior in all the land challenging you!” Magnus said nothing, letting Carlo blow off steam. “What am I to do with you dead? Hmm?”
“You have nothing to fear,” Magnus assured, a smirk on his face. “From what I have seen, most Quagmen are cowards. It is likely none will rise to the challenge.”
One of Carlo’s guards took exception to Magnus’s comment and drew his sword, cursing under his breath as he charged toward him from across the room. Magnus walked to face him with his new blades raised. At the last moment, the guard faltered, his eyes twitched and he backed away, lowering his sword.
“You see?” Magnus said. “Cowards!” He knew he was stirring a hornet’s nest and that every guard in the city would be lining up to prove themselves the man who bested Balgur. All Magnus had to do was watch his back until then.
“Guards!” Carlo shouted. His face was red and veins pulsated across his forehead.
Three more guards burst into the armoury. Five in total stood to attention. For a moment Magnus thought they might attack.