The Hawk and the Falcon

by Benjamin Corman

  The top of the wall came not a moment too soon, and she had to throw her upper body over it and then drag her legs behind. The outer side of the wall was at least a foot thick and so she found herself toppling over and onto the landing beyond. There was no way to limit her noise this time, and in moments a guard had spun around and was running toward her, spear poised at the fore.

  Jethra tried to jump to her feet, but they were still useless, and she fell back down to her knees, fire searing up her thighs. She took out her dagger, and rolled forward, moving past the charging man. She turned when he was past and grabbed the back of the haft of his spear and pulled. She was successful in ripping it from his unexpectant grip and dragging the spear head across his gloved hands in the process. He went to scream, but Jethra threw herself on top of him, covering his face with her arms and chest. He began to kick but then she brought her dagger up and down hard into his side, finding a place between his ribs. The guard convulsed for a few moments and then was still.

  Jethra took a coil of rope from over her shoulder and tied it around the guard’s chest. She then dragged him to his feet and over to the outer edge of the wall. With a grunt she hoisted him over and let him drop. She grabbed the end of the rope tight then and caught his impact when the length of rope ran out, some halfway down the way. The jolt nearly took her over as well, but as she was dragged forward, she caught her forearms on the stone ledge, catching herself with another jolt of pain. She then lowered the guard’s body another ten feet or so, before slicing the rope with her dagger, and letting him fall the remaining distance. He landed with a dull thud, as quiet a sound as she could hope for. Then she scooped up a handful of dirt from a nearby corner and spread it over the pool of blood in the center of the walkway. It was not pretty, but in the dim light, it would likely do the trick. When she was finished, she sheathed her dagger and coiled the rope back up and put it back over her head and across her body.

  Her walk through the city streets was largely uneventful. It was a poorly lit section of town, and she was only disturbed once, by a drunkard who wandered out of a tavern, looking for a place to relieve himself. While he was occupied, she retrieved an iron pot from that had been discarded in an alley and brought it down on his head. The dirty, unkempt man stumbled forward, and then fell on his face.

  After that Jethra was able to make her way toward her target. The information had come directly from Marsen Crake, and he had attested on his honor that it was good, for what that was worth. So, she came upon a large inn of three floors, lit brightly with well place torches, guards in chain with spears standing evenly spaced upon the porch that ran along the first level. She looked up to the third floor, to where she was told her latest target would be. There were too many guards, and too much light, to scale the walls. She’d never make it without being seen. She knew this would likely be the case, however, and she was prepared.

  Jethra grasped the medallion hanging from her neck and squeezed. The screams of the children came to mind again, and tears threatened to run from her eyes. I do this for them. It is too late to save them, but vengeance, at the least. And my raven-haired beauty… there is still hope… I must believe… She took the pack off of her shoulders and retrieved a pair of the two-chambered glass globes from their padded, cloth, enclosures. They were filled already with yellow oil and dark powder, set with wicking in the indentation on the outside. Flint against the steel of her dagger set the wicking alight and then she stood and walked out into the torchlight. The time for hiding had come to an end, now they would see the doom they was brought upon their heads.

  A guard noticed her within moments, and shouted, raising his spear. Several of his companions came around the landing, joining his side. Jethra launched one of the globes into the air, watching as it arced up and then downward, smashing into the floor in front of them, the glass shattering, and flame erupting into the air. The guards’ cloth surcoats caught fire immediately, then up went their underclothes. They had soon dropped their spears and were fighting to remove the burning material from above and below their armor. She took her bow from her shoulder, and drew arrow after arrow from her quiver, dropping one guard after the next, her dark shafts protruding from their bodies.

  Then Jethra was vaulting up the steps of the inn and dashing inside. Shocked patrons screamed as she raced past pushing them out of the way. When she made her way to the first interior staircase, she ran upward, throwing another glass globe onto the stairs behind her, setting it alight. When she crested the first landing another guard came up to her, sword drawn. She lurched inward and rammed her dagger home, into his armpit, in the space between his breastplate and vambrace, and he screamed in agony. But she stopped not to consider it and ran down the hallway toward the next stairwell.

  These stairs she took two at a time, then she retrieved, lit, and threw another globe behind her, watching the wooden stairs once again turn into an inferno. She raced down the hall and came to the room she had been told to find. She smashed the door open with a kick of her boot and jumped through the doorway. When she was inside, she turned and wrapped her rope several times around the iron door bolt and the iron hook on which it was meant to sit, looping it twice around itself, and pulling it into a tight knot.

  Then she turned around to find the figure of a man, deep in his years, sitting with his back to her, facing a roaring hearth. In all the disturbance he appeared to not have moved, or at the least, he was not panicking for reasons she could not guess. Jethra drew her dagger again and walked toward his exposed back. When she was nearly upon him, she saw that he had a sword out, resting across his legs. His white hair was neatly combed, and his face freshly shaven. Without turning to face her he started to speak.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked, little emotion in his voice. “Do you know who they’ve sent you to kill?”

  “Some lord or another,” she said. “Least that’s what they told me, and you look to be the type.”

  “I’m Darelus Arbelus,” he said. “Earl of Laire.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “No, but you should know who you are taking the life from.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” she said.

  “Do you know why you do it?” he asked.

  Jethra thought for a moment, turning his words over in her head. Did he mean why she was ordered to do it, or why she herself committed such acts? Finally, she answered, “It doesn’t matter.”

  Arbelus turned toward her then. “It should.”

  “You’re all the same,” Jethra replied, shaking her head. “The world will always be better off with one less lord commanding armies to descend upon the masses, slaughtering them with little hesitation or concern, setting their lands ablaze, murdering their children, raping their women.”

  “I see.” Darelus Arbelus stood then, sword in hand, though it was held now down by his side.

  Jethra gritted her teeth and launched forward, striking out with her dagger. Arbelus’ sword was up faster than she would have thought, and he caught her blade on his own, and turned it away.

  She came on again, putting all of her hatred, all of her anger, into the attack. She succeeded in sending him staggering a few steps backward, but still he caught the attack, and then came back with a slash at her head that forced her to duck. After that he was on the offensive, thrusting and slashing as he went, backing her into a corner.

  In one such offensive an over-hand chop left his sword embedded in the wall behind her, and so she lunged forward with her dagger at his exposed stomach. But Arbelus was able to retreat a step and catch her wrist in a surprisingly tight grip. He pushed her away, to the floor, and turned about, his sword now worked free. He came back at her with a series of slashes, and it was all she could do to back away and avoid his blows. Finally, he caught her deep in the left side and her tunic immediately turned red with blood. Jethra fell to her knees and he landed another blow on her right shoulder.

  Blood was flowing freely to the floor
now, and she was panting hard, but so was he. Flame had made its way under the door and was now crawling up the wall. Jethra could see that his energy was waning, assuredly a good fighter in his youth, but age was nonetheless taking its toll now. Darelus Arbelus looked almost sad as he raised his sword again and brought it down.

  Jethra caught the blow with her left forearm, feeling the steel bite into skin and bone. Shock registered on Arbelus’ face, as she pushed to her feet with a roar and planted her dagger into his neck. His sword fell to the ground as he grabbed for the wound out of instinct, his hands clutching at the hilt that now protruded from his neck. He fell to his knees, no words coming as the dagger had assuredly caught them off.

  “I never meant…” he finally managed to gurgle, blood coming up, running down his lips, “…any harm…” He fell to his stomach, one hand clawing at the floor, the other now only limp fingers refusing to give up on the blade in his throat.

  “You never do,” Jethra replied. Then she walked over to the door and retrieved her rope. She tied it around one of the posts of the large bed, and then wrapped it around her good arm. She grabbed her pack from where it had fallen on the floor, three glass globes remaining inside, and made her way to the window. She got one foot over the sill and then, despite the fact that the entire wall ahead was now engulfed in flames, she threw the pack into the air.

  It came down with a crash next to Darelus Arbelus’ still struggling form. There was an explosion of flame and glass as she jumped from the window and plummeted to the ground below.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MARTIN

  The Victorion was a tavern on Quabash Street that had stood for more than a hundred years. It had walls of white plaster, and an angled roof of wood beams and red clay shingles. The windows were rectangular, with arches at the top, above which flourishing decoration of arms, armament, and other battle relics, were carved. It was nestled squarely between Kardiff territory and that of Gregor Hake, and so it was chosen as a neutral ground for the parties to meet.

  When Martin entered, Ciaran and Roald in tow, the man he was to parlay with had already arrived and was seated at a rectangular table in the corner. He was of an age with Martin, with brown hair and a neat mustache and goatee. His sword was notably present at his waist, and two other men stood down the wall from him, one bald, and the other with long brown hair, both armed and no doubt ready to protect their friend. Gregor Hake had demanded a sit-down, after the Viserin affair had further disturbed the peace, and had brokered such with the widow Kardiff.

  Martin left his companions off at a table a few feet away, and then made his way over and sat down in a ladder-back chair across from the man. A mug of ale was brought to match the one already served to the Kardiff man across from him, which Martin took a draught from before sizing him up. This was Oliver Cresswell, a boy he’d known in his youth, now grown up. They’d run together on the streets and docks for a time, had got along alright, for what it was worth. Now, they found themselves on opposing sides of a discussion that that had little concern to Martin. He wondered how Cresswell felt about the whole thing, but as was apparent, he imagined he’d son find out.

  “So,” said Cresswell, breaking the silence, as he rubbed his hands together.

  “So,” said Martin, sitting still, his back straight.

  “It seems the fates have conspired to have us talk this out. I supposed we should talk.”

  “If you’d like.”

  Cresswell spread his hands. “Your master wishes to see peace between Kardiff and Hake. So does mine. Do you not?”

  Martin scoffed, sitting back in his chair and putting his leg up on an empty chair to his right “Master? Well, that remains to be seen I suppose.”

  “Oh?”

  Martin put his leg back down and sat forward. “You are a Kyresi man, are you not? Your family was born of the east? What are you doing licking the boots of Myrish scum?”

  The other man sat back in his chair. “The Kardiffs do not discriminate.”

  “No?”

  “And the coin is good.”

  Martin nodded and said, “Ah, I see. Coin.”

  Cresswell clenched his jaw at that. “It’s honest work. Good work. Say what you will, do what you will. I did not come here to be insulted by the likes of you. Do you want to make this peace or not?”

  Martin grinned, threw his head back and chuckled. Then he leveled a glare at Cresswell. “Not.” He stood up and started to walk back toward his friends and the entrance. Ciaran had a defeated look on his face, his shoulders slumped forward. He knew as well as Martin that Hake wanted this to end. Martin patted his friend on the arm and gave him a smile.

  “This is your last chance, Krye,” Cresswell called from behind him. “Your only offer. Give up this fight, and there will be gold enough in it for all of us.”

  Martin laughed again, not turning around. Roald, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest said, “Well, that went well.”

  “Indeed,” said Martin, and he left the tavern behind.

  An hour later they arrived at a squat, dark structure of stone and mortar that served as a smithy. There was a tall, round, brick chimney rising out of the roof, from which black trails of smoke issued forth. On his way in, Martin saw two more Acolytes of Marunda. Large, bald, well-muscled. Red of face and with the same red hand painted on their chests. They were busy staining the walls with their red palm prints as well, though one did turn toward the trio as they approached and repeated, “Brothers. By fire or sword. By flame or steel. We all come and we all must go.”

  Martin rolled his eyes, ignoring them, and went inside the smithy. There, a short, barrel-chested blacksmith named Barjaf was busy at work. A thick leather apron covered his abdomen, thick leather gloves his hands, and a dark beard trailed down his chest. He was turning a haftless sword blade over and over in a brick furnace of red coals, then opening and closing a giant bellows that fed into the bottom, causing the coals to glow a bright orange as he did.

  Barjaf grunted in acknowledgment as Martin arrived, then after a few moments, set aside his work and moved to the back of the shop. He returned with Martin’s sword, the blade newly restored after his confrontation with Viserin, and handed it to him. Martin inspected the blade, turned it about in the light, and then sheathed it at his side. “Better than new,” he said, truly appreciating the craftsmanship of the hulking blacksmith. Barjaf nodded, and then turned back to his work. He looked back up after only a moment though, peering at something over Martin’s shoulder, toward the entrance.

  Martin turned to see the two Acolytes from outside standing there, large wooden cudgels in their fists. Martin grinned at them and nodded his head toward the furnace. “Sword – fire. Steel – flame. Right?”

  “Yes, brother,” the same Acolyte from earlier said. Then he raised his cudgel and ran in, bringing it down hard. Martin spun out of the way, but it caught his shoulder, sending a thousand tiny pinpricks down his arm and into his hand. He tried to draw his sword, but the second man was in close then, and Martin had to duck to avoid the swing of his weapon, which instead smashed into the wall, leaving a large hole in the plaster.

  Martin ran toward the furnace to put space between himself and the attackers and saw the blacksmith’s thick gloves resting on the edge of the furnace, the sword blade still resting in the coals. He slipped a glove on and grabbed the iron, then spun about, holding the glowing red blade in front of him. It had no crossguard attached as of yet, but it was sharp enough, and burning hot as well. The Acolytes kept their distance, their eyes on the glowing iron, but then the talkative one yelled, “We fear not the flame!” and charged in.

  Martin stabbed forward with the sword blade, the hot iron catching the large man’s belly, and emitting the sizzling sound of metal quenched in flesh. The other came after, but tripped over his falling friend, all of which gave Martin enough time to back away and draw his own sword. The injured Acolyte roared to his feet, and then both of
them came at Martin again. Martin leveled a slash at the first man, missing his chest by a hair, but then Barjaf was at his side, a massive smith’s hammer in his fists. The smith let loose a roar of his own and swung the hammer round and took the second man square in the head, sending him crumbling to the dirt.

  Martin then charged forward, taking the first man in the gut, pushing him to the ground, and running over him, pulling his sword free as he went. He burst forth from the smithy, back onto the street. There Ciaran Smythe and Roald Casterlin were already engaged in swordplay with six men in dogfinch tunics.

  “Bloody Kardiff scum!” Martin yelled, and he raised his sword, and jumped into the fray.

  When the fight was over, six Kardiff men lay in slowly spreading pools of their own blood. The dirt road was eagerly drinking up the red liquid. The Acolytes of Marunda, no doubt paid by the Kardiffs, were also inside the smithy, dead. Barjaf had a gash on his left bicep, which was dripping blood, but Martin handed him a pouch of silver coins for the trouble.

  A bruised Roald Casterlin glared at him, and now Ciaran, who bore beneath his right eye a weeping slice of his own, looked angry too. “You know Hake wanted an end to this,” Ciaran yelled. “Not an escalation.”

  “They came after me!” Martin shot back. “What was I to do? Let them kill me?”

  “You had your chance at the tavern,” said Ciaran. “To put an end to it.”

  “And why should I?” demanded Martin, getting close to Ciaran’s face, staring into his eyes. “Hm? Why?”

  “Why fight?” Ciaran shot back.

  Martin laughed at that. “Why not? I care not for Kardiff men, for Myrish men. Let them learn what it means to come after good Kyresi folk.”