by Jenna Rhodes
“A few traitorous Vaelinar besides the handful or two of Kobrir.”
Bregan swallowed a curse and raised his blades as shadows heaved and the attack came at them.
Sevryn swung away from the first knife with a hiss, stepping away with a vicious parry, and found himself with precious little time to do anything more than react. He shouldered away the lunge of a second assailant, blades whining as they slid off one another. The alley gave them close quarters and shadows in the late afternoon sun, and the experienced Kobrir knew how to work the scene to their advantage. Assassination was all they had been trained to do, its dark art swam in their veins instead of blood. They maneuvered him about as Sevryn found himself blinded by a shard of unexpected light one second and then doused in inky darkness the next. He let his ears and his hands do the work then, sensing what his eyes could not. Another step into the fray, letting Bregan guard his back, the Kernan trader prince nearly as good with his weapons as those the two of them faced.
An assassin took his measure with a slow blink of his eyes, the only part of his face visible under his veil. He raised both hands in a salute to Sevryn before stepping into his assault. Sevryn met him hand to hand before sweeping his boot out and catching the other in the kneecap, crumpling him to the ground. A dagger to the throat and Sevryn leaped over the body, carrying Bregan with him. He held two in a frontal assault, now in cautious movement, assessing him further. Still at his back, Bregan grunted harshly as he took a blow, and his sword sang a steel-driven note as he met blade with blade.
He looked to make certain Grace had not come after them, braver than she should be but, to his relief, saw no sign of her. He could fight his best if he knew they were clear, and he knew that she knew that.
Then Sevryn lost all thought except for the need to meet attack and mount attack, to give as good as he got as the tide of Kobrir descended upon them.
He didn’t intend to die that day. So when Death granted a respite, Sevryn grabbed at it and Bregan and hauled his comrade up, clambering above the fray like a creature going tree-born, as the Kobrir fell back in disarray and confusion and lost them momentarily. Sevryn crouched on the edge of the roof, eyes intent upon the alley below. A cold moist wind off the river bathed his heated face, hiding his scent, barely rippling the edge of his cloak, and curling off the edge of the daggers he held. Unsure of the exact moment it had happened, Sevryn had gone from prey to hunter. That quickly the tide had turned.
Without doubt, living remained imperative. He put his hand out, stilling the companion who moved restlessly beside him. He could appreciate the other’s stiffness, the leg brace that helped more than it hindered although the limb the brace contained remained unwieldy. Bregan quieted with a slow inward hiss of breath. Sevryn winced, but none of the shadows below—the shadows which moved in spite of the torchlight and the moonlight—seemed to take notice. They were searching, quietly and effectively, save that none of them looked up. When the Kobrir did, the pitched battle would begin again. They would swarm up walls to the rooftop as handily as they had swarmed the alleys. He could almost swear that the laws of flat and incline did not hold for them. He had once seen a Kobrir creep across a ceiling, although with some effort that made him think later that they might have been using climbing gear of some sort to achieve that. As assassins, they had no peers.
Except perhaps a man like himself who had been trained by both the street and by Gilgarran, which did not give him an edge, just an opportunity. He could hold his own against one. Two. Even three. But more than that boiled down below him, shadows merging and dividing until he lost count of the twilight shapes. He remained convinced they had come for him although the Master Trader would be a far richer prey if hostage taking were their intent. Yet in the skirmish below they had—had he imagined it?—acted as if Bregan were an inconvenient obstacle to be put aside with as little harm as possible, so that their target might be achieved.
He let his mind wander down twisted ways as dark as the shadowed and misty alleys below him. If Sevryn were taken out, how vulnerable would Nutmeg be? Lariel? With her brother only two seasons dead, who could stand for Lariel if he were gone? Not that the Warrior Queen needed anyone to raise a blade for her; she was nearly as swift and sure as he was with a weapon, but who would have her back? Only Bistane after him. Sevryn told himself it should be too dangerous to so openly assassinate him.
Shouldn’t it?
Who could be so bold?
He felt that the tyrant Quendius did not hire the Kobrir. Likely they would no longer work for him, if they had ever worked for him in the past. The rogue Vaelinar weaponmaker did not keep bargains, knew no boundaries, and had little respect for anyone but himself. If he wished Sevryn dead, he and his bound servant Narskap would come do the deed themselves and relish the doing.
Perhaps the ild Fallyn had hired these blades. That would fall naturally to their bloodline. Tressandre ild Fallyn, known for ambition without measure, would not hesitate to cut him away from Lariel if she could. Yet Tressandre’s actions would not be blunt but sharp and hidden, unaccountable, untraceable. The Kobrir attack would be too obvious for her, unless she were desperate. Of all things the sultry woman could be at this moment, he did not think desperate was among them. She had converts now who would be less subtle than she, but they would hesitate to act independently for fear of her retaliation. It was well that they should be afraid of her. He was. But not here, and not now.
His thoughts spun a dark web about him, weighing whether he might live or die. Yet none of them could explain or shake from him the sense that he indeed stood at a crossroads. He would make decisions in the next few moments which would inalterably change his course. They would impact his world and the few he would either stand with or leave behind, and nothing would be the same. He’d felt this fate upon him only a few times in his life, and he had never thought to feel it again. Mentally he flipped a silver coin and sent it spinning through the air, waiting for it to fall . . .
He leaped from the rooftop, killing two as he landed, dancing backward in a slight retreat. They grouped to follow. Another step backward as they closed. And another as he drew the fray down the street. Away from the Farbranch farmhouse and cider mill. Back toward the wards of town and city. Back to the alleyways and gutters and streets like those where he’d lived his early life. Like a mother bird would fake a broken wing to draw the tree foxes and other predators away from her nestlings, he drew them away from his loved one. Bregan, at his flank, moved with him without question as he took to the rooftops a second time. The cloud of Kobrir circled about him below, ravens after the kill, intent on their mission. He decided to strike while he still had some advantage. Sevryn extended his senses, felt his mind identifying the pattern of the reality about him, inhaling long and deep and silently as he learned it intimately. Then he spoke, loosing his Voice Talent that began deep in his diaphragm and pushed out of his throat, vibrating the very air, and the Kobrir reacted. They could not help but respond as he compelled them to submit. Even Bregan started at his side.
He heard his taunt echo from the alley juxtaposed to their current position. He lifted a finger to Bregan and leaped the span, landing softly behind them.
They struck in the darkened maze of alleys behind the Trader and the Yoke pub. He heard them coming, at least five, his hands open and stance wary. Shards of black splintered apart and reformed. He had no fear of street cutthroats and bullies, but as they rushed him, he could hear the hiss of their breaths as they sucked inward, preparing.
“Blades high,” he said. He slashed backhanded across his right flank, catching the first who had hoped to come in under his guard. Swathed in black, the assailant crumpled at his boots but it was Bregan who kicked the body aside. He parried a blow and struck under it, only to have it firmly parried back to him. Bregan let out a grunt which might have been in sympathy, but Sevryn knew was more likely to have come from shielding.
He would have to trust Bregan to take care of himself. He had his own concerns. The trader had grown up with a sword in his hand, and even if he had been forced to change from one lead to the other because of a grievous injury, he had come back nearly as strong and twice as clever, no longer being able to count entirely on his strength. The trader could fight.
Sevryn twisted a knife blade off his sword and countered with a punch of his left fist, his own dagger buried deeply in his hold save for four inches of the point. The Kobrir fell back. Under his veiled face, Sevryn thought he could see pain in the eyes, but the moment fled so quickly, he couldn’t be certain. He hadn’t time. Three Kobrir rushed him, and thoughts fled to reflex, movements honed into him by years of hard training and sparring with some of the best fighters in the world. The trade of killing by body and blade took him over, possessed him, and when he blinked to wipe sweat off his brow with the bloodied back of one hand, he saw two more bodies fallen before him, while three fresh Kobrir glided quietly from the back alley to replace the dead.
They barely gave him time to register that before they were on him again.
He fought with the awareness that they held back. Perhaps it was Bregan shielding part of his vulnerability, but they could have worked that. The Kobrir took every advantage they could. He had faced them before, and barely lived to tell about it. But they had to know, even as he and Bregan protected each other, the two men also hampered each other’s full movement. The assassins had to know that, and waited to use it. But why did they wait?
Sword and daggers bit and clashed. Hisses of pain were sucked in and muttered warnings grunted out. He sheathed his sword in favor of another dagger. He’d never used a shield, he wore scarred and supple leather vambraces to protect his forearms, and dagger work, wet work, seemed to be the only way to beat the attackers back. They would take him down. No two of them fought the same, and he no sooner mastered the rhythm and attack of one when he would drop back and another step into his place. They were growing canny. His thoughts scattered before their strikes and blows. He took another Kobrir down before he found time for a second, deep breath. If he had been hurt, he did not feel it, would not until later. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud but steady, and he could feel the warmth of kedant coursing through his veins. That told him he had been hit, at least once, but he no longer had the sensitivity that many Vaelinar had. He’d been shown his vulnerability and he’d fought it, building up a slow but definite immunity to the venom which had been particularly virulent once. If the Kobrir had thought to lay him low, they missed their bet. The veiled and shrouded being in front of him dropped back on his heels, retreating, as if reading his thoughts, and he took the precious moments offered to recover his stamina.
The inside of his right arm quivered a bit with the strain. He shook it to loosen his muscles. Blood splattered off him as he did. It ran into a black-crimson runnel in the hard-packed dirt. He could feel Bregan at his back, trembling from boot to shoulder. Was it weariness or fear? Either way, Sevryn couldn’t blame him. He’d never had such a number of assassins come after him so relentlessly. He’d fought them before, though never in such numbers, and they would retreat rather than assault a target futilely. This time was different. It would not halt until he was either dead or he had killed all those mustered against him.
Bregan jostled him roughly, with an inhaled hiss, and Sevryn broke their stances to whirl about. Three Kobrir snarled and ranged against his sword mate, like war hounds worrying at a breach, seeking to bring him down and leave Sevryn standing alone. Bregan dropped to one knee, his braced one, shielding the good leg and letting the golden metal brace of the bad one act as a shin guard and more. He, like Sevryn, had gone to hand daggers in place of his sword, for the Kobrir pressed him close and desperately. To kill him was one thing, but to kill those he loved and that Lariel had put under her protection, as she had all the citizens of the western lands, was another. Anger filled Sevryn, a hot anger that fed new blood to tired muscles and nerves, surging inside him like an irresistible tide. He would ride that anger as long and far as he could.
Sevryn filled his left hand with both of his fighting daggers to reach inside his vest for his throwing knives. One, two, three, they left his fingers with growing accuracy until the last thunked home, centered in one of the revealed eyes of the Kobrir on Bregan’s left. The veil fluttered as he hissed out in pain, and fell with a truncated wail. A man down with the Kobrir did not always mean death, but he knew this one would not rise again.
Fighting stopped a moment. He had assassins at his flank who froze as if listening to silent instructions. The heated beat of his own heart filled his mind.
Then Bregan pivoted on his heel, bringing around his braced leg, the leg covered from mid-thigh to calf within a golden, enruned cage designed and crafted by Vaelinar hand. He swept his leg out, catching Sevryn behind the knee, sweeping him to the ground.
Kobrir swooped over Sevryn, covering him, pinning him down as the trader began to back away. He paused. Bent. Whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry, Sevryn Dardanon. Very sorry. The Gods spoke to me and I had to listen. They’ve awakened, finally! Awake! They told me to bring you here.”
Then Bregan’s voice was gone, shouldered away, the trader dragged off by Kobrir hands, his heels digging a groove into the alleyway dirt before he twisted free and took to a run; then all Sevryn knew was many, many hands upon his body, hands like steel claws.
Another dry breath upon his ear, grazing his cheek, carrying the scent with it of a drug that tickled at his memory, a drug he should have known, but which he could not place, and why in God’s name did he think now of drugs and Gilgarran’s teachings about drugs and spying when he was about to die and he should be thinking of his Rivergrace and the sorrow he would be bringing her? His heart ticked once, twice, and the killing blow did not fall.
Instead, the Kobrir at his neck said, “We were betrayed.” Breath sprayed hot on his face. The low husky whisper continued. “We know the secret of the death of life. We were brought here to kill you, but we now break our contract. We honor your mother, and we have been shown you must live. As you love your soul and those of others, come find the king of assassins. Find him and find answers. Or your Rivergrace is lost. Her sister is lost. The queen to whom you are sworn is lost. And more.” He dropped a pair of handcuffs into the grime of the alleyway where they smoldered as if newly forged. A second item, a thin shiv of unique make with a D stamped on its slender hilt followed.
And then they all disappeared like the black smoke of which they seemed to be made, black smoke with hands as hard as obsidian. He tried to look for them, and his vision blurred. Sevryn groaned as he tried to rise to give chase and could not.
He knew nothing more until someone kicked him in the shoulder.
“STAY IN THE GUTTER this close to the tavern and they’ll be pissin’ on you, lad.” Tolby Farbranch reached down to Sevryn whose ears rang as he looked upward uncertainly. Stunned, he hadn’t moved for . . . how long? Sevryn blinked as the rough and callused hand reached down and pulled him to his feet. He fought for his balance, and the grip shifted to his shoulder where it stayed, fingers biting into the flesh beneath his light armor. Tolby had come from the fields, it seemed, for he smelled of grape leaves and late sun, and he wore his short sword and a wickedly sharp pruning hook tucked into his belt, a man as solid and welcome as a good rock wall at his back.
Sevryn patted his old friend’s hand. “I think I already have been. You should have been here earlier.” He stomped one foot and then another, steadying himself. He’d been unable to do anything but lie still while the Kobrir retreated, and then his thoughts had addled on him. Who would think to mention his mother to him, a woman gone and long thought dead? She had to have gone to dust long ago, born of Kernan blood that lived a tenth of the lifespan of the Vaelinar. She had to be long gone . . . but not forgotten, and why remembered by the Kobrir?
Sevryn coul
dn’t understand why they had refused their Kill. The knowledge that the assassins had turned on their contractor . . . impossible! He’d still be lying in the alley effluvium if Tolby hadn’t rousted him, his thoughts spinning a cocoon about him. A glint caught his eye.
He bent, scooping up the handcuffs and dagger before Tolby’s sharp gaze could spot them and palming them inside his shirt. “Nutmeg? Grace?”
“A little shaken and their mettle is up, but they be fine. Hosmer is standing guard.” Tolby’s mouth curled. “Sorry I missed th’ action.” A caravan guard in his youth, Tolby Farbranch could more than hold his own. He dusted Sevryn off. “Grace said there were two of you?”
“One fell back.” Sevryn wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s see how he fared.”
“You did for the others?”
“As well as I could.”
Tolby nodded and said gruffly, “That’s as well, then. I won’t have killers after my daughters.”
“Hosmer can hold them?”
“With his brothers.” Tolby shifted his belt on his hips. “I will feel a bit better after we send word to th’ queen.”
“Soon as I check on Trader Bregan.”
“He stood with you?”
“For most of it.” Sevryn did not part with more detail than that as he surveyed the alley. Tavern first, but if the trader had well and truly fled, he’d not catch up to him for a few days, not until things were settled here. Tolby fell in step with him as he strong-armed the tavern door open, a structure of solid wood, smelling of beer and raw hard liquor, and smoke. Few enough faces outlined by sooty lamplight turned to squint warily at them in the doorway. He saw no sign of Bregan. A low growl of disappointment escaped his throat. He shouldered the door shut before muttering, “Bregan turned tail on me.”